


building bridges out of walls

by klefaeries



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Mutual Pining, blackwall is bisexual i dont make the rules, for a series called dragon age there aren't a lot of dragons as actual characters, hnnngh im gay, if i don't see any mage rights we gonna have some mage fights, im not a cullen or solas fan and it’s gonna show lmao my bad, like...the original female character is me lmao, lots of canon divergent stuff, no seriously if you like cullen don't read this, so i remedied that, suicidal themes and depression and anxiety are consistent throughout, thedas needs more memes, there's so much canon divergence plotwise my dudes, this is a pile of garbage set on fire and then left to burn in a dumpster for three years, this is literally a self insert, this was supposed to be slowburn but its gonna be more like skinny love lmao, vazrah adaar is literally my favorite inquisitor and i would die for her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 147,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klefaeries/pseuds/klefaeries
Summary: The jump was supposed to end things, not give her a new beginning. But here she was, in a world of magic and impossible things like the tiny dragon who was essentially her new impulse control, armed with a renewed sense of purpose and the power to summon storms with the snap of her fingers. With nothing but a desperate hope to finally live the life she had always wanted, she was going to help the Inquisition fix the hole in the sky even if it killed her. Oh, and the fantasy lumberjack guy living all by himself in a cabin in the woods was a plus.





	1. the jump

**Author's Note:**

> so uh. hey. 
> 
> this is a self insert. the original female character? it me. completely, utterly me. i haven't been able to write for so long and i finally realized it's because i've been stuck on the mantra of "write what others want to read," not "write what YOU want to read." so here i am. writing a shameless self insert for my own amusement, and only posting it out of morbid curiosity to see if anyone else will actually read this trainwreck.
> 
> lots of mental bullshit will be abound in this, but it won't be as triggering as this first chapter. there's a suicide attempt. just to warn ya.
> 
> blackwall is a very important character to me and deserves so much more love than he gets so i'm gonna love him enough for the rest of the fandom.
> 
> this will be updated at my leisure. some chapters may be short, some may be long...depends on my mood i guess. and who knows, i might feel so humiliated about posting my self insert that i may delete this, but i'm hoping that doesn't happen. anyway...
> 
> on with the show.

It was the most difficult decision of her life and yet, simultaneously, somehow the easiest one too.

Bridget stared down at the water below her, hand gripping the bridge rail so tight her knuckles turned white. The river swirled viciously in deep, dark brown whirlpools and the roar of the currents was deafening. The sky above was gray like smoke, promising another round of storms—which in turn brought the promise of higher water levels and the currents turning even more deadly. 

Which made it the ideal place to jump.

A cold gust of wind slapped her in the face. The few strands of her thick chestnut hair that weren’t wrapped tightly in a ponytail fluttered wildly. Hazel eyes remained trained on the muddy depths that raged beneath, pointedly ignoring the alarmed calls of some stranger from the opposite end of the bridge. Her tennis shoes squeaked on the damp metal when she shifted her weight, swallowing thickly. 

_Just do it. Get it over with. Fucking coward. Don’t let anyone stop you._

Bridget jumped.

The howl of the wind in her ears was louder than the screams from whoever had watched her. She knew the water was going to hit her like concrete being that she was jumping from a bridge that was suspended twenty feet in the air; she had told herself to expect it, but that didn’t change the utter earth shattering agony upon impact. It was like every inch of her exploded and she momentarily blacked out. The frigid temperature of the water brought her back to reality as she was thrashed about within the currents, limbs useless. Not that she had planned on using them anyway. 

Her lungs were on fire and begged for a reprieve. Bridget let the water drag her further and further down, the freezing rapids wrapping around her almost lovingly. It was so easy to let go. To finally, _finally_ give up. She should have done it ages ago. She should have ended it all much sooner instead of trying to push through each day with a painted on smile and a heart desperately trying to patch itself up every minute.

_Sorry I was such a massive fuck up. Hopefully...this will make things better. Hopefully._

**Hope.**

It was a voice that was so intrinsically not her own. It boomed through Bridget's mind like a police siren and echoed through each corner of her psyche, filling her to the brim. It was drowned her very soul, more so than the churning polluted currents that were pulling her this way and that. 

**You still hold on to the hope of better things. You still care. You still want to live, despite everything. You still have hope. So why do you do this—why do throw your life away when you know deep down it isn’t the right path?**

The voice was not unkind, but it was not entirely benevolent. Bridget wanted to scream but she couldn’t; drowning didn’t let one talk, much less about when they were being dragged further and further down into the depths of a river. Or any body of water, really. Drowning was supposed to be silent. It was why she had chosen that method as opposed to...others. 

**...I know your pain. I feel it, and I grieve with you.**

What did the voice know? It was just some weird psychological effect of dying! ...although in that case, being that it was most likely the sliver of awareness that did not want to die, it probably knew a lot. It probably knew, as Bridget’s throat constricted as if ropes were winding tightly around it, and as the last bit of oxygen squeezed out of her desperate lungs, that deep down she didn’t want to die. Not really. 

_But I didn’t have much of a choice. I hoped for so long that shit would get better, and it never fucking did._

Things were finally beginning to get dark at last. She could feel her consciousness slip away, and with it the pain from crashing into the water was fading as well. 

**But there is a chance it will now.**

And Bridget felt herself being yanked upwards as if some unseen force had taken her by the hood of her jacket and _pulled_. 

She broke the surface of the water with a gasp as she greedily sucked in air, coughing up mud-flavored water that she would probably taste for the rest of her life. She was on her hands and knees, with stones and sand digging into her pants and palms. Her body shuddered as she expelled the last bits of river from her lungs and almost collapsed face down into the crystal clear water now surrounding her, but it was that picturesque scene that stopped her. 

Bridget slowly raised her head. Her surroundings were completely and utterly unfamiliar. It was night out, for one—and the black velvet sky was the clearest that she had ever gazed upon. Stars like diamonds shone beautifully and a moon that was far too big illuminated everything in a pale, tranquil light. Her chest heaved as she continued to breathe heavily, a wounded and confused sound escaping her lips when she realized that none of the usual constellations that should be glittering in the sky were there. When she tore her gaze from the stars and glanced around, she was certain that she really had succeeded and this was now the afterlife. 

It was...a lake, or something. But there were strange stone formations off to the side and trees were scattered everywhere, and an old-looking bridge just a couple feet in front of her that spread across the lake and led to a part of the shore that was slightly raised. On it perched a quaint wooden cabin of sorts; a warm orange glow from one of the open windows beckoned to her. Everything smelled fresh. Clean. New. As if she were breathing air for the first time. Or maybe that was just a side effect of near drowning. Had she died? Was she dead? 

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Bridget’s voice was gravelly and hoarse as if she had smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. Unbidden, she realized she had forced herself to stand up at last, and gingerly stepped away from the shoreline. The only thing she could hear besides the sound of her own heartbeat was the slightly distant roar of a waterfall somewhere nearby. 

**This is your chance, Bridget.**

The voice made her jump and a yelp escaped her mouth. The flinch made her realize how sore her entire body was; as if she had run a marathon without any rest, and all she wanted to do was collapse back into the gentle embrace of the lake behind her. 

“Who are you?” Bridget whispered, slowly feeling the telltale signs of a panic attack approaching. The sensation of her heart being squeezed, the rise in temperature that was almost suffocating, the weakness in her legs that threatened to give out at any moment. 

**I will explain later. For now, get to the house you see. It will provide a safe place to rest.**

A sigh flitted through her mind. The presence that had made itself known the moment she jumped was still there, and it was somehow comforting in a strange and terrifying way. Despite wanting to scream, despite the urge to demand answers, Bridget allowed herself to take a breath and calm down as best she could. 

Bridget’s legs moved on their own and with difficulty, began to walk across the rickety bridge and towards the cabin. 

She didn’t even register making it to the door until she was weakly knocking on it with both hands. It was wooden and worn and opened the third time she pounded against it. 

“Please…” 

Her voice came out in an exhausted murmur as she felt her legs give out at last. She fell forward and her mind descended into pitch darkness, only aware of hitting something soft and a surprised deep grunt before everything was gone. 

\---

Blackwall wasn’t having much luck with recruitment in the Hinterlands. With the Blight ten years past and the current issue being the war between mages and templars, no one really gave a damn about Wardens. Not that he minded terribly much. The treaties had given him use of a decent cabin overlooking Lake Luthias and aside from the occasional scuffle with thieves and wolves, things were peaceful. 

A momentary reprieve from blood and battles did everyone a bit of good, even if he knew he deserved much worse. 

But tonight was as silent and calm as every other night had been for the last couple of weeks since Blackwall had come to this part of Ferelden. His sword was freshly polished, his shield properly adjusted, and the crackling of the hearth filling the cabin with a pleasant warmth was practically begging him to crawl into bed. 

But as Blackwall began the task of undressing, he only got as far as shedding the outer layer of armor and placing it on the floor when he heard the sound of knocking at the door. 

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered indignantly as he wiped the desire to sleep off of his face. There was a chance this was some poor farmer or peasant that had heard about him being in the area and needing the services of a Warden...even if he wasn’t actually one. Or maybe it was a rebel mage looking for a fight (though he didn’t think one would knock on the door first before setting the house on fire). Perhaps it was a templar who thought he had any spare lyirum. 

When Blackwall yanked the door open he certainly didn’t expect the visitor to be a young woman who was drenched from head to toe. 

“Please,” she whispered in a voice of sheer exhaustion before her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she stumbled forward. Blackwall reached out and caught her without thinking twice, grunting when she hit his chest with more force than he expected. She slumped against him, face pale and eyelashes fluttering, and Blackwall stared. 

She was...pretty. The kind of pretty that might make one look again as they crossed her in the street or a crowd. And she was completely soaked—there was already a puddle forming underneath her and he could feel his own clothes getting wet. She had thick brown hair that looked like it was meant to be braided, but most of it was a sopping wet mess and strands hung limply along her cheeks. Her clothes were...strange. A red coat of some sort of soft material with strange illustrations sewn into the arms, dark blue trousers that were rough and had holes in the knees, and footwear that Blackwall couldn’t even begin to describe other than it being black with bows on each foot. 

Her odd attire aside, it was clear something had befallen her, and Blackwall wasn’t the type of man to abandon someone in need—even if he really, really had wanted to go to bed. 

Effortlessly he swung her body up into his arms and carried her over to the bed nestled next to the fireplace. He lay her carefully down and winced when the blankets immediately began to darken as the water soaked into them. The realistic part of him knew that it would be best to get her out of the wet clothes before she got sick. The other part really didn’t want to undress a lady without her express permission, even if it was under the pretenses of putting her health first. 

When the young woman let out a sound that was a mixture of a pained groan and a sharp intake of breath, Blackwall decided that chivalry would have to come second. The strange coat luckily had buttons that were easy to undo. Underneath was a snug and simple black undershirt, like the kind a soldier would wear under armor to prevent chafing, and Blackwall couldn’t help swallowing as he noticed just how...endowed she was. He quickly pushed the thoughts away and gingerly peeled away the sopping wet material, sending a silent plea to Andraste for forgiveness as bare stomach came into view. Blackwall pointedly avoided the sight of her chest rising and falling and left the bra on, knowing it would be horrid if he went that far even to keep her warm and dry. A quick inspection of the her upper body confirmed no visible injuries and he went to work on shimmying the rough trousers down her legs after pulling the odd shoes off of her feet. Again, he avoided looking at her smallcloths as he checked for anymore signs of injuries and, finding none, leaned back and let out a sigh he hadn’t realized he had been holding in. 

“Just what in Andraste’s name happened to you?” he wondered out loud as he hung up the wet clothes on a rack of antlers that decorated the wall. It was as if she had crawled straight from the lake just a few feet away. But why? Had she been running from someone, and hid beneath the water? 

Pondering the question wasn’t going to give him any answers then and there. Blackwall hurriedly dried the unconscious girl with a spare blanket and did his best to tuck her in amongst the sheets and furs, pausing momentarily when her eyes fluttered open for the briefest of seconds. They were a lovely shade of brown and green, and she gazed up at him in startled confusion before her eyes closed and she was just as inert as she had been moments before. 

“...sleep well, my lady.” 

Blackwall pulled up the one chair in the cabin and sat down, facing the fire for as much warmth as he could get, and closed his eyes. 


	2. arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: haha im just writing this fic for my own enjoyment and posting it for shits and giggles so it doesn't matter if people read it or not
> 
> also me: hey why the FUCK is no one commenting
> 
> god it's been years and i still can't beat the perfectionist out of me when it comes to my writing uhgghhghghg
> 
> i was shocked when this actually got hits and kudos, thanks y'all. also holy fuck editing on ao3 is such a pain in the ass cause it doesn't carry over italics and bolded words and i gotta go through the whole damn thing to make sure the formatting is correct. the later and larger chapters are going to murder my fingers my dudes.
> 
> fun fact of the day: this fic is named bridgewall in my google docs.

It was the the sound of snoring that roused Bridget from her dreams.

Everything was hazy at first. She was warm, surrounded by softness, and a pleasant aroma of smoke mixed with pine needles and various other forest-y scents filtered through her nose. She groaned softly as she forced her eyes open, rubbing at her face in an effort to further expel the sleep away from her person. 

She was in a bed. That much was for sure. And the room she was in...looked very much like something out of a medieval movie. Kind of like a hunter’s refuge, judging by the antlers on the wall. There were a couple of swords—actual fucking swords—and a shield resting on a desk at the opposite end of the room and what looked like...armor strewn haphazardly on a bear skin rug. 

Another snore cut through the silence and she turned her gaze to the fireplace, which held the small and dying glow of embers. A man sat in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, head looked to one side and arms crossed. The snores were coming from him.

_Oh. Wow._

The man had the most impressive beard Bridget had ever seen. His hair was black and messy, and his face was lined with age and scars. He wore what looked like the padded armor of a knight from the Middle Ages, and was...eerily reminiscent of the bear rug currently residing on the floor next to him. He was kinda hot. In a rugged, middle-aged huntsman sort of way. He probably chopped down trees for a living and most likely had a very impressive physique to show for it.

**Good. You have awoken.**

Bridget clapped her hands over her mouth to prevent the startled yell from escaping as the voice reverberated through her mind. Her whole body tingled like tiny electrical currents were coursing through her veins, and for a moment colors seemed to be ten times for vivid than they were before.

And then there was a weight in her hands, and Bridget looked down.

She was holding a small dragon.

A fucking _dragon._

It was about the size of a squirrel. Its scales were an alternating pattern of silver and white, kind of like an iridescent snowfall. Two small horns like fancy deer antlers rose up from the sides of its serpentine head. Its wings looked soft and feathery, like those of an eagle or a hawk. It gazed up at her with intense and steady eyes the color of spring crocuses pushing stubbornly out from a frozen garden.

“We meet in person at last. I trust you slept well?”

The voice that came out of the tiny dragon’s mouth was the same one that Bridget had heard when she had tried to drown herself. It was then that she realized it was feminine; soft and gentle, like that of a motherly figure or an older sister. 

“Oh what the hell is going on.” Bridget gaped in sheer amazement. She felt tiny sharp pricks from the dragon’s claws as it—she?—crawled a little bit onto her arm, spreading brilliant cloud-like wings before settling back into what was essentially the cat-loaf position everyone in the internet (herself included) lost their collective shit for. The dragon had a long tail equipped with feathers at the very end, as well as little spines that ran down the course of her back.

“I know this is very disconcerting for you and that you have questions. I will answer them as best as I can, but first—”

The dragon gestured her elegant head towards one of the walls and when Bridget followed her gaze, her face went nearly as white as the dragon’s scales. Her clothes were hanging from a lumberjack coat rack made out of antlers. 

Bridget was in nothing but her underwear, and she had an inkling of how her clothes had been removed. Thinking back to her most coherent memory, through, she came to the realization that she had basically crawled up to the door looking like some swamp monster, so the beefy dude currently passed out in the chair had probably just wanted to get her dry.

But still.

“Please tell me he’s not some pervert who’s going to kill me when he wakes up,” Bridget muttered as she gingerly slid out from the comfort of the furs and blankets. The dragon launched herself from Bridget’s hands and flew—actually _flew_ —effortlessly over to the antlers on the wall where she perched like an elegant butterfly. Bridget tiptoed across the wooden floor, wincing when she stepped on a creaky board. A quick and furtive glance assured her that the man was still sleeping, and all he did was grumble something unintelligible as he let out another deep, rumbling snore.

Bridget had never gotten dressed as quickly as she did right then. Her jeans were still slightly damp and a quick inspection of her tennis shoes confirmed their unfortunate sodden state. It would probably be another day until they dried decently. She left her jacket hanging since it was toasty enough even with the dying fire, and sniffing it make her cringe a little. It smelled like the river. She probably did too. She didn’t even want to think about what her hair looked like.

“So…”

She addressed the dragon that was watching her intently with those soul-piercing blue eyes. “Care to explain what’s going on? Or is this just some weird fever dream and I’m actually in the hospital right now, stuck in a coma?”

“Oh, no. You are very much awake. And very much alive, I might add.” The dragon’s voice was slightly amused at the word ‘alive’ and she hopped off of the antler rack and landed on Bridget’s shoulder, her scales rubbing against Bridget’s neck slightly as she adjusted herself. They were smooth like a snake’s, yet also weirdly soft. “You...may call me Hope. I heard your soul. It called to me. So I came to you, and brought you here. You didn’t really want to die, Bridget. You just wanted a better chance to live.”

Bridget’s eyes burned with the threat of tears immediately the words left the dragon’s mouth. She bit her lip so hard she almost drew blood and squeezed her hands into fists as she took a deep breath, her voice shaky and quiet as she stared at her dirty socks and absentmindedly counted the grains of the wooden floorboards.

“...and where is here?”

“Thedas.” Hope butted her head against Bridget’s cheek, reminding her of how a cat would show affection. And despite everything—despite the agony in her soul, the unknown of this whole situation, and the realization of what she had done—Bridget felt herself grow a little lighter as the dragon’s breath fanned across her cheek. It smelled sweet, like lilies and irises and honeysuckle.

“Thedas?” Bridget raised an eyebrow as she forced the oncoming breakdown back into its dark corner of her mind, reaching up with one hand and cautiously running her finger along the slender and serpentine neck of the little dragon on her shoulder. Hope leaned into the caress and chirped softly, a sound like a bird and a cat put together. Bridget fell in love with the dragon right then and there. Words failed to describe the way her heart swelled and her eyes welled up with tears again; that touch confirmed that this was real, and there really was a fucking dragon on her shoulder, and that she really had tried to kill herself.

And had failed.

Hope did not answer for a minute, almost as if she sensed Bridget’s inner struggle. When Bridget let out another shaky breath and made her way back to the bed, sitting down on the edge and focusing her attention on the man snoring blissfully away, she spoke again. 

“It is...another world. Your world is one of many. Thedas is one of many. I am a wanderer of these worlds. I hear the hurt in the souls of the suffering, and I listen to their longings and dreams. Sometimes I can help them. Sometimes I can’t. But you, my dear Bridget? You, I could help.” Hope gently nudged her cheek again, it took everything within Bridget to not collapse into a mess of sobs and tears. “I suppose you could say that I was born here. So when I listened to your...wishes—that desire not to die, but to live a better life—I realized I could help by bringing you here. Where you can have a purpose. If that is what you want, of course.”

“Yes,” the word rasped out of Bridget’s mouth almost desperately as she nodded her head, shoulders shuddering from the effort of keeping her emotions in check. “Oh god, _yes_. I...I didn’t want to die, not really, but I was so…”

She trailed off, because she knew that the dragon understood, and there was nothing else to say.

They sat in silence for a minute again, save for the occasional snores emanating from the absolute bear of a man by the fire. His weird lumberjack hotness was a welcome distraction compared to the inner turmoil and emotional distress that Bridget knew she would have to address again sooner or later.

“Oh, before I forget,” Hope fluttered her wings and her voice raised to an excited pitch, “the crossing to the world from yours caused you to come in contact with the Fade. You may find that you have...changed somewhat.”

“Uh.” Bridget scratched her head in confusion. “What’s the Fade? How have I changed?”

“You’re a mage now,” Hope responded cheerfully without missing a beat. “The crossing to this world gave you magic!”

…

“WHAT?!”

Bridget’s shriek rang throughout the cabin and the man in the chair snorted awake, practically jumping up and out of the chair with a bewildered shout. He looked even bigger standing up. His eyes darted around wildly and when his gaze landed on Bridget, she shrank ever so slightly under the intensity of those grey eyes.

When he noticed the dragon perched neatly on her shoulder, he visibly blanched and seemed frozen where he stood.

“Uh. Hi?” Bridget smiled nervously and gave a little wave. “Nice weather we’re having?”

“You’re...awake.” His voice was gruff and had a rough English accent. Which was unfortunate. Because Bridget _really_ liked accents. And deep voices. 

“Yup. I’m awake.”

The two stared at each other in an awkward impasse, though the man’s attention was obviously focused more on Hope. Something told Bridget that tiny psychic dragons weren’t very common in this Thedas place...even if magic apparently existed.

...and even if she apparently was now a mage.

“So.” Bridget cleared her throat, breaking the silence and rising from the bed, making her way towards the man. He shifted ever so slightly and his eyes darted to the swords that were only inches away, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was trying to decide whether or not he needed to grab one. Bridget ignored the bitter taste of fear in her mouth and stuck her hand out, plastering what she hoped was a passable smile on her face. “My name is Bridget. I guess you, uh, saved me so...thanks?” _Even if you basically did have to strip me haha holy shit this dude has seen me half naked and he didn’t even know my name._

“There’s a bloody dragon on your shoulder.” He didn’t shake her hand, which Bridget has been expecting, and still stared at Hope with an expression of definite “oh fuck what do I do” on his scruffily handsome face.

“Yeah. Her name’s Hope. She’s uh...she’s my emotional support dragon, sir.” Bridget grinned nervously and patted the dragon’s head lovingly. Hope, in turn, drew herself into a regal position and addressed the medieval lumberjack man in a calm and soft manner.

“There is no need to fear, good Warden. I shall not harm you; nor will she. She is new to this world. I ask you to show her kindness and help her settle in.” Hope sighed, and it was a tired sound that called to Bridget’s soul. “I must return to the Fade. It’s been some time that I’ve been in a physical form; I didn’t realize how much energy it would take from me.”

“Y-you’ll be back, right?” Bridget asked quickly (too quickly, she knew, but she couldn’t help it), her breath catching in her throat as the acidic tell of panic rose sourly and coated her tongue.

“Yes. Don’t fret, dear one. You can reach me within your heart if you need help.” 

Hope was gone just as quickly as she had appeared. The same electric sensation zapped through Bridget’s body and she suppressed a shiver, squeezing her eyes shut at the unfamiliar sensitivity and awareness. She knew it was magic, somehow—and that however the fuck it was going to work, she was a mage.

The beard dude was still staring at her and Bridget wasn’t sure if she should take her leave and get out or try to be civil again.

“Andraste’s tits, what the fuck is going on?” The man sputtered out the words in utter befuddlement, rubbing his temple and giving Bridget a look that was more exasperated than freaked out. She took this as a small victory.

“I have no idea who Andraste is but I’m sure she’s got great tits. Anyway, yeah, I’m not entirely sure either?” She shrugged, clucking her tongue and holding out her hand again in an attempt to once more be polite. “But again. I’m Bridget. And you are?”

“...Blackwall.” The man eyed her hand suspiciously but reached out to grasp it in his own rather large (and worn and scarred, Bridget just so happened to notice for no particular reason) hand. As soon as he made contact with her, however, a _shock_ rippled through the air between them and sparks shot out from Bridget’s fingertips, reminiscent of a power line downed in a storm. She felt a rush of adrenaline and stumbled back the same time Blackwall did, though she didn’t shout in surprise the way he did.

She just stared at her hand in a curious awe, mouth hanging open and eyes wide.

“Well shit. Was that magic? Did I just do magic? Or does this Thedas place have a predisposition to intense static shock upon human contact?”

Bridget didn’t want to focus on how...amazing that brief rush of power had been.

“I need a drink,” the shaken and bearded man named Blackwall muttered, giving Bridget a wary stare as he inched around her (giving her a fairly wide berth) and headed towards an intricately decorated oak chest in the corner. He shoved the lid open and rummaged around for a second before pulling out a dirty bottle filled with a murky liquid that reminded her of the river. She shoved the comparison down a hole in her brain and locked it with a chain and key.

Blackwall popped open the cork on the bottle and took a swig, then another, and a third one. He set the bottle down on the desk and wiped his mouth, straightening up slightly and clearing his throat in a somewhat dignified manner.

“Right. Well then. That tasted real enough, so it seems I’m not dreaming. And I’d appreciate it if you could explain just what is going on.”

So she did.

Bridget left out the part about jumping, of course. But she told him everything else in earnest, from waking up in the lake to hearing Hope talk to her in her head, and finally how the dragon had somehow brought her to this strange new world in order to have a new...purpose. Blackwall listened stoically through the entire thing, not saying a word, with those stormy grey eyes of his never leaving her face.

When Bridget finished, he sighed and rubbed his temples again, face wrinkled in contemplation. “I want to call you mad, my lady,” he began, and the title made Bridget’s heart jump faster than a rabbit running away from a house cat with too much time on its paws. 

“But?” she prompted as she swatted the unnecessary emotions away, telling herself that it was probably just a common thing because he was some sort of knight and knights did that sort of thing. Right?

“The idea of you being from another world in itself is mad enough that it couldn’t possibly be made up. That dragon...must be a spirit from the Fade.” Blackwall groaned and shook his head. “I’m a simple soldier, my lady. I fear I don’t do well with magic and the like—much of it is beyond my understanding. But I believe you aren’t going to strike me down with a bolt of lightning or join the other rebel mages and slaughter innocents.”

“Uh...come again?” Bridget didn’t like the dark venom that laced his words. The sudden epiphany that she really was in another world, with a completely different history and a whole new slew of issues hit her in the gut like a punch. There was probably going to be a lot of questions within the next day. Or two. Or a dozen. However long Blackwall would let her slum it up in his medieval lumberjack retreat.

“Maker, how do I explain this to someone who has no knowledge about...anything?” Blackwall was speaking to no one in particular, of course, as he threw his hands in the air out of frustration. 

“The beginning?” she suggested with a shrug.

“Right, well...we’re in Ferelden. More specifically, the Hinterlands. Everything has gone to shit because the mages wanted less restrictions and the templars—soldiers who are meant to protect and watch over the mages—were allowing the power to get to them. Now there’s a war. Mages are leaving the Circles and becoming apostates and templars are doing everything they can do hunt them down. Too many innocent lives are caught in the crossfire. The Divine—she’s our...spiritual leader, if that makes sense to you—has called a Conclave in attempts to mediate between the two parties and stop the violence.”

“So...the Democrats and Republicans are trying to kill each other and the pope is trying to stop it?” Bridget summarized brightly. Blackwall gave her a blank stare, indicating he had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. She decided to change the subject. “Hope called you a Warden. What does that mean? Are you some sort of jailer?”

“Ah. The full title is Grey Warden.” Blackwall drew himself up, in a stance that was meant to portray an atmosphere of pride and confidence. Yet Bridget couldn’t shake the fact that it seemed...off. “We’re an order of men and women who fight against the Blight and Darkspawn, and the archdemons behind the Blight. It’s like an evil disease, I suppose is the easiest way to describe it. It’s existed since ancient history and the most recent Blight almost destroyed Ferelden ten years ago. We—” Bridget noticed a strange emphasis on the word ‘we’ but acquainted it with that same sense of honor he was emanating as he spoke “—take the Blight within ourselves in order to fight against it.”

“Avengers fighting influenza with a really strong vaccine. Okay, makes sense.” Bridget nodded along with his narrations, knowing that she could ask Hope to extrapolate later if need be. “Last question for now: what the fuck is the Fade and why do you and Hope talk about it like it has a capital F?”

“Ah, that’s…” Blackwall ran a hand through his majestic beard, lips pursed in thought. “As I said before, matters with magic aren’t my strong suit. The Fade is...difficult to explain. It is where mages draw their magic from. It is where spirits and demons live. It can be visited in dreams, but the last people to physically enter were Tevinter magisters during ancient times. According to the stories, that’s how the Blight started. Because the Maker punished the magisters for trying to become gods in their own right. The dragon...I suspect it’s a spirit of some sort, and that’s how it heard you and was able to bring you over. Though I don’t know enough about them to know just how it was possible.”

Bridget made a mental note to ask Hope to further clarify some things regarding the Fade and whoever this Maker figure was—the god of Thedas, it sounded like, but Bridget liked to be thorough in regards to new cultures. Satisfied and head swimming with a sea of new information, she cracked her hands above her head and stretched out her neck as a yawn left her lips. It was the sudden and intense growl that gurgled from her stomach that finally cracked a small and sheepish smile on Blackwall’s face.

_Oh shit, he looks good when he smiles._

“Pardon my poor host skills. It’s not every day a girl from another world shows up. I haven’t much for food save for dried meat and cheese, but I’ll fix you something to eat.”

As he began to rummage through the chest that he had gotten the booze (or at least she assumed it was booze) from, Bridget couldn’t help the smirk from slowly spreading across her face. Blackwall seemed a decent sort. Kind of like a dog ever watchful and making sure his master was pleased. It was that fantasy medieval knight chivalry if she had to put a name to it. Which would make being an absolute little shit all the more fun.

“So, Blackwall, I have another question…”

He didn’t turn around but grunted his affirmation for her to continue.

“What color underwear am I wearing?”

Bridget imagined that his face was a lovely shade of scarlet and even his beard showed some color when he let out a garbled, choked sound not unlike a cow’s dying last breath, practically shoving his head in the chest and stammering out a string of sincere apologies.


	3. strange magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was brought to you by copious amounts of chicken nuggets while attempting to catch up on critical role
> 
> smelly dirtwizard needs a hug and a very long vacation

Everything fell into an easy routine after the initial first day of crawling out of a lake in another world. To her shock, Bridget adjusted to a life without electricity and modern plumbing with relative ease. Part of her was desperate for chicken nuggets and French fries instead of the ram meat stew and thick, hearty bread; part of her wanted nothing more than a phone in her hand so she could pull up whatever meme compilation she was inwardly quoting; part of her longed for a hot shower instead of chilly dips in the lake. 

But despite it all...Bridget enjoyed living out of a tiny cabin in the middle of some fantasy kingdom ransacked by mages and anti-magic knights. Blackwall was kind and did his best to accommodate her, always ready to familiarize her with another aspect of this new world she found herself in. He insisted on her taking the bed, of course, and like a true gentleman had created his own little sleeping space out of furs on the rug in front of the fire. He made it very clear that he had no intent on invading her personal space and “sullying her honor” after the underwear debacle, and even though she put on the mask of indifference Bridget actually panicked inwardly every night when they went to bed just because of the fact that she was sharing a space with a man. She wasn’t a prude, not in the least. But she was a very complicated 23-year old girl who had many hang ups and lots of unresolved issues. 

For now she did her best to ignore it all and instead focused on the fact that he was so goddamn huggable when he was sleeping.

While she did not appear to Bridget physically, Hope was usually there to answer most questions inside her mind. The dragon (or spirit, as Blackwall had put it, but Bridget didn’t really care what label Hope had as long as she continued to be present) explained more of Thedas and the historian in Bridget practically had a stroke with every tale. The Maker was akin to the Abrahamic religions’ notion of “God” in her world and Andraste had been an ancient prophetess whom had been murdered by Tevinter for her visions and preachings; basically the Roman Empire if it had magic. Ferelden was the quintessential idea of a medieval fantasy land, basically smashing together middle age England with Narnia and Lord of the Rings. Orlais, the empire which seemed to always be at odds with Ferelden, was fantasy pre-Revolution France. 

There were other nations and lands, of course, but those three seemed to be the main power houses. Andraste had been a member of an Alamarri tribe, which was basically the ancestor culture of most of modern Ferelden. As it usually happened with ancient history, things got a little muddled, and essentially the only remnants of the Alamarri lifestyle were the nomadic tribes of Avvar who still followed their old ways and lived in holds scattered across the Frostbacks.

Humans weren’t the only people who populated the world, much to Bridget’s delight. There were elves, who apparently had gotten totally fucked over when Tevinter was at its most powerful and many were slaves or scattered throughout the wilderness in clans that struggled to keep their culture alive. And of course dwarves, as essential to the fantasy race pool as elves, and they were split between a population that lived underground and spurned the outside world as well as a large faction who were banned from the dwarven kingdoms and ran giant criminal syndicates to survive. The most intriguing of the non-human races, however, were qunari—a relatively new group that had first showed up only a couple of centuries earlier. They were big. They had horns. They were probably super attractive and could squish Bridget’s head between their thighs like a melon. They mostly stuck up north in Tevinter territory, waging war and doing their damnedest to convert everyone to their philosophy of life known as the Qun, which no one really understood except the qunari themselves. And probably not even all of them, if one dug down to the root of it.

The Fade made up the rest of Thedas, with its spirits and demons and dreams. Bridget wasn’t quite sure just what exactly the Fade was—Hope didn’t talk about it very much. When Bridget pressed, the dragon merely assured her that in due time she would explain it, but for now all she had to know was that it was what connected mages to their magic, and soon she would most likely be drawn across the Veil during her dreams. 

Hope insisted she wasn’t a demon (though Blackwall insisted just as adamantly that only a demon would say that) but she wasn’t exactly a spirit either. She would only say that she would make sure Bridget was well-educated in all manners of magic and act as her guide when she eventually found her way into the Fade through dreams.

And perhaps the only thing that Bridget couldn’t find herself getting acquainted with was the arrival of her magic. Aside from the accidental sparks of lightning when she had attempted to shake Blackwall’s hand, Bridget couldn’t conjure anything else up. Hope had offered counsel, and even though Bridget had spent most of her life praying to every deity that had ever existed for some hint of something fantastic and arcane to happen to her…

She just couldn’t.

It was Blackwall. The look in his eyes when the sparks had happened...he didn’t hate magic—he had made that clear in his discussions with her concerning the mage and templar war. He hated those who used their magic to harm others. But she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable being that he hadn’t tossed her ass out the moment she showed up at his door. He was doing so much to ensure her comfort as she adjusted to life in Thedas. Bridget just couldn’t slap that hospitality in the face.

It was on her fifth day in Thedas that Blackwall announced he was going to have to do some recruiting for the Grey Wardens.

“It’s why I decided to stay in the Hinterlands,” Blackwall explained as he put on the well worn armor that Bridget admired pretty much every time she looked at it. It was nothing like the overly complex designs one might see in a museum that belonged to a rich lord—it was meant to protect the life of the wearer, and the knicks and scuffs in the steely hide were badges of honor. “The Crossroads aren’t terribly far from here. Redcliffe Village is a little more out of the way. With the war going on...I’m fairly confident I’ll find some willing conscripts.”

He had a map (that he admitted was most likely outdated by a decade, but it was still accurate enough for their purposes) which Bridget had been studying in addition to the swathes of information Hope and he fed her. She devoured each bit as hungrily as the next, silently vowing that if she ever returned to her old world she would definitely write a book. Redcliffe had been hit hard by the Blight, according to Blackwall’s testimony. It looked tiny on the map, compared to the capital city of Denerim.

“Will you be...alright, alone here?” he paused before attaching a sword to his belt, looking intensely at Bridget with an unreadable expression. It either said “I am genuinely concerned for your wellbeing” or “please don’t burn the house down.” To be honest, it was probably a bit of both.

“I know how to fish, I know what berries won’t poison me, and there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere near civilization until I can pass as a normal citizen of this fine country,” Bridget answered somewhat flippantly, giving him a thumbs up. In truth she hasn’t even left the lake area, only going to far as to inspect the strange stone figures (an Avvar monument to one of their epic heroes, a bad ass bitch named Tyrdda) and wandering up to the waterfall that cascaded down from the Frostback Mountains. She wasn’t quite ready to expand her horizons physically just yet. Hearing about the rest of Thedas in history lessons from a voice inside her head and the occasional tidbit of a fantasy lumberjack was good enough for her.

“And if someone shows up—say a thief—and attempts to harm you?” Blackwall prompted, not unkindly. 

“I’ll zap them in the ass and sic the wild goats on them!” She grinned deviously, wiggling her eyebrows.

Blackwall sighed. “You barely know how to use your magic. Something could happen and you could get yourself hurt.”

“Don’t be such a mother hen, Blackwall. It’ll be fine! Go out and convince everyone that stabbing the Darkspawn is their purpose in life. Hope can help me if I need her. Really, I’ve taken up so much of your time as is, and I don’t want to drag you down by having you worry about me…” 

She trailed off, hoping he would let it go and just get on with it. In truth, Bridget wanted to finally practice her newfound magic, but only after Blackwall was long gone so she could ensure no harm would come to him and that she wouldn’t do anything to freak him out. Her excessive quoting of memes and 21st century vernacular, combined with her easy use of foul language was already confusing enough for the poor guy. And, well, the whole “hey I’m from an entirely other world!” situation. He was probably used to highborn ladies who didn’t think they had to wipe their own asses.

“Right. Well. I shouldn’t be more than three days, perhaps four.” Blackwall slipped a helmet on, one that covered his nose but left most of his face showing; a long black feather of some sort sprouted from the middle of the top and hung limply down the back. A shield of some kind of metal alloy that was just as worn as his armor was strapped to his back, and he patted the sword at his side as if to ensure it was still there. 

_Ah, what a knight in shining armor. A booze-loving, bearded lumberjack knight who also snores way too loudly._

He moved to the door and opened it, putting one foot over the threshold but stopping as if he were frozen in place. When he turned to look at Bridget, his eyes were unreadable again, but his mouth was curled into a pleasant and humorous smile.

“Farewell, my lady. Don’t talk to strangers, and don’t drink all of my grey whiskey.”

“It was one time!” Bridget called out after him before he shut the door behind him. “And it wasn’t even all of it! It was a sip to see what it was, and if that rancid piss is what all of Thedas drinks then I’m pleased to report that I’ll never become an alcoholic.”

She pushed away the warm and squishy butterflies his amused chuckle caused to grow in her chest.

Bridget waited for exactly fifteen minutes before she burst out of the cabin and into the crisp morning air of the Hinterlands, taking a deep breath and sinking her bare feet into the dewy grass. Blackwall was nowhere to be seen and the only other life was some birds chirping from the pine trees near the fishing spot on the lake and the ever-present rams that roamed the hills each day. The sky was blue, the wind was a gentle breeze, and there was magic to be learned.

Hope materialized out of thin air without any prompting, and once again Bridget’s senses seemed intensified for a brief moment. Colors burst, smells nearly knocked her out, and she could hear ants nibbling on a leaf somewhere to her right. But it dissipated just as quickly as it had came, and in its place was a familiar glittering white dragon.

“Did your Fade nap give you enough energy to have a physical form for some time?” Bridget asked as Hope fluttered to her shoulder, scratching the little creature under the chin affectionately. She started to make her way to the fishing dock, drawn by the calm stillness of the lake. 

“I believe so. Enough to assist you with your magic, that’s for certain. What do you remember of our past conversations regarding the magic of this world?” Hope wasted no time in going into teacher mode and it was terribly endearing.

“Uh...there are many different schools of magic,” Bridget began as she sat down on the creaky wooden boards, letting her feet dangle off the edge and skim the top of the water. It was so...different to actually be able to see clear to the bottom, considering there wasn’t a plethora of pollutants staining the water. She could see dozens of fish swimming to and fro in a carefree manner, completely unaware of all the ways Bridget was already thinking of how she could cook them.

Hope waited patiently as Bridget lost herself in watching the fish, making herself comfortable in a cat-dragon-loaf on her shoulder and tucking her tail under her body.

Bridget tore her gaze from the fish and cleared her throat apologetically. “A-anyway. Yeah. Different schools of magic. Elemental, healing, shape shifting...blood magic...and all these schools have differentiating branches. Elemental magic is generally the most common, and it branches into the school of fire, ice, and storm magic. Oh, and sometimes the use of spirit magic can be considered part of that. I think?”

Hope nodded encouragingly. Bridget inwardly felt like she was back in college, and couldn’t help the grin on her face when she realized it was basically a really weird Hogwarts scenario. Only instead of an owl, she got an emotional support dragon and instead of Hagrid, she got Blackwall.

Harry Potter could suck it.

“All mages are born with a penchant for a certain type of magic. They can learn others, of course, but there’s almost always one type that comes naturally to them. It’s the easiest to hone and master.” Nonchalantly, Bridget closed her eyes and sent a simple command to the nerves in her hands. When she opened them, tiny crackling balls of blue white energy hopped on each finger tip, and she felt the hair on her arm rise from the static electricity.

“And _shockingly_ ,” Bridget grinned in victory when Hope gave a little groan, “I seem to be inclined towards storm elemental magic. Which I didn't see coming, considering in my daydreams I usually felt more connected to fire and ice. But hey,” she shrugged good naturedly and closed her hand into a fist, causing the electricity to fizzle out sadly. “I’m not gonna complain. It’s _magic_. I’m a fucking _mage_!”

She wriggled her toes gleefully, pumping her fist in the air. She felt like a little kid on Christmas being told she could finally play with her new toys.

Even if said new toys would have the ability to electrocute an entire herd of rams.

“You’ll need a staff eventually, to help ground your magic and use it as a focus. At least, if you plan on using your magic in battle,” Hope pointed out, cutting into Bridget’s little reverie.

_...oh. Yeah. Mages are kinda...a big social issue here, aren’t they? That whole mage-templar war thing. And Thedas is a world teeming with strife. I’m probably going to get into fights...and as chivalrous as Blackwall is, I don’t want to have to rely on him to be my personal bodyguard._

“Concentrate on becoming comfortable with your magic today. We can broach the subject of combat magic when you’re ready,” Hope soothed as she no doubt sensed the sudden dark thoughts that were racing through Bridget’s mind. 

Bridget gave a shaky nod and forced herself to her feet, moving away from the lake (she didn’t want to accidentally fry all of the fish due to a lightning bolt gone awry) and heading up the hill and steering clear of the cabin. A small herd of rams, offended by her appearance, sounded their discontent as they bounded away towards the group of trees that Blackwall had warned led to Hafter’s Woods, a part of the Hinterlands known for mercenaries and thieves.

Bridget rolled her neck from side to side to loosen it and cracked her knuckles, digging her bare feet into the ground and letting her toes sink into the mud. Hope leapt off of her shoulder and perched instead on a boulder a few feet away, sapphire eyes glimmering with anticipation. 

**Let the magic come to you. Do not force it. It is intrinsically part of you, but you must respect it, and treat it as such.**

Hope’s words echoed throughout Bridget’s mind as she took a deep breath, reached within herself, and pulled.

It was like she had jumped off the bridge again only this time, it was into a storm.

Wind ripped around her and pulled her hair free from its hair ties. The sky darkened with thick, black clouds as thunder rumbled. Snake-like tendrils of lightning curled and coiled around her body, sending jolts of electricity up and down her spine in a not-unpleasant manner. A giggle escaped her lips as she raised her arms and allowed the storm to coalesce within the confines of her palms, spheres of blue white voltage sparking obediently. She twirled around in circles as the lightning performed a waltz around her arms and legs and the thunder crackled across the sky in a deafening roar. She pointed to a spot on the ground, letting her soul speak to the storm, and a bolt of lightning struck the grass and obliterated it into a sparking black hole. She threw the orbs of electricity in her hands and they soared through the air, hitting the trunk of a tree smack in the middle and slicing a hole clear through the bark. The world smelled like a burnt light bulb; oxidation and chemical reactions, and it was beautiful.

Bridget snapped her fingers and the world returned to normal in a flash, save for the smoking patch of grass and the equally smoldering hole in the tree.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and with it an almost delirious laugh, staring at her trembling hands in amazement. She couldn’t speak or move her limbs. She felt utterly drained, like someone had unplugged her from a socket in the wall of life. She felt like she had consumed three dozen energy drinks and could run an entire football field at least twice before her heart beat even once.

“Holy shit. That was so fucking cool.”

“That was magic,” Hope corrected, sounding pleased. Her tail swung lazily from side to side but her gaze was trained intently on the young woman whose hair was standing on all ends with a flushed pink face and eyes brighter than the lightning she had just called forth.

Bridget flopped onto her back and stared up at the sky, which was as clear as it had been before—as if a sudden storm had never even happened in the first place. Her fingers twitched as she lifted her hands to the sky and a primal urge within her begged her to do it again, to reach into that power and hold onto it and never let go.

She wanted to. She wanted to lose herself in the storm and ride the wind and taste lightning on her tongue.

But she had enough sense to know that magic was dangerous, and in fairy tales it was always the witch who met her end in the most gruesome ways.

“If I can do that without a staff, then do I really need one?” Bridget joked hesitantly after a prolonged silence, letting her arms flop back down at her sides and forcing herself to dig her fingers into the earth, feeling the mud beneath her fingernails. The tingling slowly began to disappear, as if the earth was sucking it up as if it were a lightning rod. An electric smoothie, one might say.

“I highly recommend it,” Hope confirmed from her perch on the boulder, and Bridget grumbled in response. “Perhaps we can ask the Warden for suggestions on where to purchase one somewhere close.”

“I have no money. I don’t even know what currency they use here. I’m assuming it’s gold related. And I’m not asking Blackwall to spot me for a magical stick so I can shoot lightning bolts out of my ass more efficiently.”

Bridget grinned when she heard Hope snort in undesired delight.

The adrenaline suddenly vanished without a trace and every inch of her body felt like it had gotten hit by a truck. Her eyes struggled to keep open and the ground was suddenly more comfortable than the hay mattress bed that smelled like a lumberjack. She completely passed out from the shock (pun completely intended) of casting her first spell, and did not awaken until later in the day when the world exploded.

\---

It wasn’t until Blackwall reached the Crossroads two hours later that the realization of him essentially leaving an apostate all alone in his cabin really hit him.

Bridget wasn’t a true apostate, of course. One couldn’t call a person who just came into their magic on account of being from another world an apostate. And she hadn’t so much as set a single blade of grass on fire or frozen his socks—at least, not in his presence, but she hadn’t wandered very far from him in the five days since the two had met. So he doubted she had really used any magic save for the accidental shock on that first day.

The Crossroads was significantly more populated than the last time he had come through, and the expressions of passers by were hard and acidic. Refugees, Blackwall realized immediately when he took in just how downtrodden and hopeless everyone appeared. There was a sense of desperation in the air. It smelled like sweat and sickness.

Most of the people kept their heads down as they scurried by to do whatever it was they needed to do. A handful gave him a respectful nod; he had tied a griffon symbol of the Grey Wardens to the armor on his left arm, and most of Ferelden still remembered what the order had done to protect them during the Blight.

_But I’m just a filthy liar using their gratitude for myself._

He hadn’t even been in the Crossroads for five minutes when a disheveled group of bandits slithered out from the shadows, surrounding him like a starving pack of wolves. The way their eyes darted to and fro, how their stance was too wide and their grips on their swords and daggers too tight...amateurs, no doubt driven to the unfortunate profession by the harsh reality of the war. 

Most everyone else ignored the scene. It was a fairly common one, no doubt. The refugees had enough on their hands and the least of their concerns involved stepping in between frantic idiots who thought stabbing things was the solution to their every problem and the innocent bystanders caught in the mess.

“Drop every valuable on your person, stranger, and we’ll let you get away with just a few bruises,” the biggest of the men grunted in an overly authoritative voice. His face was slick with a sheen of sweat.

Blackwall merely raised an eyebrow. There were only five of them, and their only teacher of the blade was survival. A cornered man with nothing to lose was no joke, but Blackwall had also been a cornered man with nothing to lose before.

“I want no quarrel with you. I’m just passing through, looking to recruit for the Grey Wardens,” Blackwall answered calmly, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword and hitting each of the bandits with a steely gaze.

The de facto leader spat. “Fuck the Wardens. There’s a bloody war going on; no one gives a shit about the fucking Blight when there’s mages stealing children to sacrifice for rituals and templars raiding villages to look for the mages!”

The way his eye twitched was all the warning Blackwall needed. His shield was up to deflect the slash from the dagger, and he spun on his heel to parry a blow from a sword from behind him. The fight was over before it even properly started. Weapons were dropped to the ground when Blackwall simply slammed the hilt of his sword into their arms. Noses were bloodied when they tried to lunge forward only to be met with the edge of his shield. Blackwall was so intent on ensuring that the sorry excuse for bandits focused on him that he didn’t even realize when the majority of them scattered and dashed away like cowards, disappearing amongst the run-down huts and crowds of wary refugees.

Only three remained, groaning as they lay curled up on the ground, holding their faces or wrists or wherever Blackwall had blocked their pitiful attacks. He almost felt sorry for the bastards. Almost.

“Get up,” he commanded, towering over the three men. He was between them and the weapons they had dropped, and from the absolute terror in their eyes, they knew it.

Wordlessly, the three struggled to their feet, faces ashen with despair and legs trembling.

“By the right of conscription given to the Grey Wardens, I am recruiting you three,” Blackwall announced loudly and clear enough just in case there were any stragglers listening from the shadows, licking their wounds. “You will be under my command until I send you to Weisshaupt. Pick up those weapons, put them away, and follow me; I’ll teach you how to use them responsibly so you can actually do some good in this world instead of preying on refugees.”

They did as he asked without a word, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Blackwall managed to procure some bedrolls and tents from the one merchant who dutifully remained in the Crossroads despite the futility of it all. He’d been prepared to use the last of his funds, but the merchant insisted on taking the items on a discount—“For stopping those fools before they actually hurt someone,” he had explained thankfully. The bandits-turned-recruits silently took the supplies when Blackwall shoved the bundles into each of their hands.

And so the Warden and the conscripts began to make their way back to the cabin on the lake, retracing Blackwall’s steps from only hours prior. It was a painfully silent journey and judging by the way the three men flinched every time he slowed his pace down to stand near them, Blackwall was fairly certain they were convinced he was going to execute them all in the middle of the road. Which he wasn’t, obviously, but a wave of pride built up in his chest from the mere fact that he managed to terrify the little shits. It was promising; it meant they still have some semblance of a conscience, and hopefully would become better men from the whole ordeal.

When they rounded the hill that led to the lake, the cabin just barely in view, the ground trembled beneath their feet and the sky exploded in a flash of sickly green.

It was blinding at first. Blackwall had to shield his eyes as the sun and sky disappeared in a hue of diseased emerald. When he could finally lift his head from his elbow, the sight that he was met with made his heart stop beating.

In the distance, across the Frostbacks, there was a hole in the sky.

It was a funnel of clouds that swirled angrily in every disgusting shade of green possible, like a rotting wound combined with vomit. The air felt strange, like there wasn’t enough room to breathe. It was horrifying. As if the Maker had torn open the sky and just...left it there, for all His children to see.

A pain-filled scream tore his attention from the tainted spectacle and Blackwall was sprinting up the hill and past the lake, across the bridge that one day would probably crumble beneath him. In the grass was Bridget—doubled over and clutching her head with one hand, the other sinking into the ground as if to hold on to it. A strange patch of burnt up grass was only a couple feet away and the air smelled like it did after a heavy storm, but he set those observations aside. Blackwall knelt down beside the young woman, the conscripts and hole in the sky all but forgotten.

“What in Andraste’s name happened?!”

“Don’t know,” Bridget choked out and when she raised her head to look at Blackwall, her eyes were the kind of glassy one often saw on the battlefield after a soldier got stuck with a blade in his gut. Her hair was a mess and tears leaked down her flushed cheeks, and from the blood that dribbled past her lips as she spoke it was evident she had bit her tongue or the inside of her cheeks. “Was...n-napping? And then everything...hurt,” she whispered, body shuddering violently.

Almost unconsciously, Blackwall put his hands on her shoulders in an effort to steady her. The moment he made contact, she gasped and he was certain he had somehow hurt her, but the agony etched in her face disappeared and her eyes regained a sense of clarity. He watched her swallow with some difficulty, slowly removing her hand that had been clutching at her head, and let out a hiss between gritted teeth as her body relaxed somewhat.

“It’s gone,” she mumbled in weary awe, staring at Blackwall. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. You...what did you do?”

“Me? I did nothing.” Blackwall was just as confused as she was. He let go of her shoulders and instead grasped her forearms, hauling her to her feet (which he noted with amusement were completely bare and very muddy) and pointing to the angry green tear in the sky miles and miles away from the little cabin on the lake. “Does the pain happen to coincide with...whatever that is?”

When Bridget followed his finger, her face went pale. “...oh. That can’t be good.” Her voice was a hushed whisper, trembling ever so slightly. They were silent, both of them merely staring at the swirling angry mess in the sky with dread-filled eyes. It wasn’t until a timid clearing of the throat from behind them that snapped the two out of their trance, and Blackwall turned to see the three recruits nervously fidgeting.

He almost felt bad that he had completely forgotten about them. Almost.

“Are those gonna be Wardens?” Bridget questioned a little too cheerfully, though her face was still slightly stiff and he could see her hands trembling. She noticed him looking and shoved her hands behind her back, putting on a grin that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “That was fast. Your charming ‘I live in the middle of the woods’ beard must be what seduced them, huh?”

She bounded over to the three, wild hair and bare feet and unkempt clothes rivaling even the former bandits’ sloppy appearance. 

_She deserves new clothes. She’s been wearing the same things for nearly a week and hasn’t said a word but Maker, she’s not a soldier and deserves better. Even if I have no idea where to even get clothes remotely similar to the ones she’s wearing now._

“I’m Bridget! You could say I... _fell_ into Blackwall’s arms by accident.” She hooked a thumb over at him and stage-whispered, “Don’t let the brooding ‘woe is me’ face fool you, he’s a big softie. At least I think. We technically just met but sharing a cabin in the woods makes you get to know someone fairly well, right?”

Blackwall had to hold back an amused snort at the absolute disorientation the three conscripts so clearly felt, unaccustomed to such a...boisterous personality. She just continued to babble on as if she had known the men forever, completely unaware of their growing bewilderment. Or perhaps she was totally aware and merely used it to her own advantage. Blackwall wasn’t quite sure how Bridget’s mind worked just yet, and that unpredictability was both frightening and captivating.

Exactly one week after the hole in the sky appeared, the Inquisition showed up.


	4. nobody expects the thedosian inquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey have y'all ever seen concept art of blackwall??? go look it up right now. we could have had it all but bioware were cowards and didn't want him being the only character romanced. part of me really wanted to have him be concept blackwall for this but i decided against it because that would be too powerful.
> 
> anyway FINALLY gettin to the good shit. vazrah is the first inquisitor i ever made and she romanced blackwall cause the moment i saw that hunk of beard i was like "i'm gonna tap that." but she's romancing josie in this obvs. oh and i play on ps4 so i don't actually have the fun hair mods and shit for qunari but the way she's described in here is my "canon" look for her. im gay for her. very gay. but it's ok cause she's very gay herself. also varric is my bae and i love him so much and he's so fun to write????? can't wait until hawke shows up :'3c
> 
> i despise cullen and solas and it's gonna show and i am not sorry for that. you've been forewarned.
> 
> btw my birthday is january 22nd and im commissioning art of myself for this self insert because fuck it lmao.

“Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?”

There was an unfamiliar female voice from outside the cabin. Bridget had gotten used to the only sounds being grunts and steel on steel for the last week as Blackwall trained the three conscripts he had plucked from some sort of bandit gang. She’d had the cabin all to herself at night with the arrival of the new recruits (whose names she had tried to learn but her brain just refused to remember) because Blackwall had felt it was only appropriate for him to join them outside in his own little tent considering he was the one in charge of them.

It was surprising how lonely it felt without the constant presence of his snores.

She hadn’t told him about how she had successfully practiced her magic. It hadn’t seemed important, all things considered—the big, nasty-ass green hole in the sky being at the top of the list. The Breach, or so it was being called from what information Blackwall had managed to gather on his returns to the Crossroads. It was apparently causing demons to show up all over, and had been the result of some magical explosion at the Conclave meant to bring peace between mages and templars.

The pope of Thedas, Divine Justinia, had been killed in the process. As a result, the fighting was getting worse, and every day so much as a spare glance at the Breach made Bridget feel sick to her stomach. Some organization calling themselves the Inquisition had taken it upon themselves to try and fix things.

She knew it was what had caused her to wake up from her post-magic nap in so much pain. If Bridget closed her eyes, she could still feel the burning ache in her head. It had been worse than a “I haven’t slept in a week” migraine. While she hadn’t had so much as a dull throb every now and then since the initial flare of pain, her skin felt like it was constantly being pricked by tiny needles and stretched by invisible forces. Like there was a rash that never went away, only it was on the inside of her skin so no amount of scratching would soothe the irritation. 

Hope hadn’t appeared or spoken to her since the hole showed up. She was still there; Bridget could feel her, but it was distant, like she’d gotten lost and couldn’t find her way back. Even her dreams were silent. It was terrifying. It hurt worse than the headache. But she couldn’t explain it to Blackwall, not when he had zero magical experience, and there was no use in worrying him when he had to focus on training the conscripts.

It didn’t feel right calling the storm without Hope there to watch. 

Bridget hadn’t used an ounce of magic, and the withdrawal was almost as bad as stopping a vital medication. Or maybe it really was just due to the fact that it had been two weeks since she’d crawled into Thedas, and there was no medieval fantasy equivalent to Xanax are far as she could tell.

She heard some more voices talking, and then a sudden cry of “You’re dead, bastard, dead!” Everything outside the cabin dissolved into what sounded like a fight. Apprehension froze her heart as she gave a cautious peek out of the window, seeing Blackwall and the three conscripts and a bunch of other people she’d never met locked in battle with a group of run down men with frantic eyes and spittle flying from their mouths as they charged.

It wasn’t a fair fight, on account of the mercenaries or whatever they were really sucking at handling swords, and it barely lasted a minute before they were all sprawled out on the ground.

Dead.

Bridget knew they were dead, but she didn’t know how, and it didn’t bother her in the least.

The realization didn’t frighten her as much as she knew it should have.

Tentatively, she opened the door to the cabin and slunk out, stepping over the corpse of a man with a swathe of arrows stuck in his chest. 

“Go back home to your families and return whatever it is that you stole along with those sorry bastards. You’ve saved yourselves; thieves are made, not born.” Blackwall was commanding of the three conscripts as Bridget made her way over. They didn’t need to be told twice, and practically sprinted away without as so much as a goodbye or a second glance. She still couldn’t remember their names.

“I believe introductions are in order,” the same female voice from earlier cut through Bridget’s thoughts and when she followed the sound of it, she nearly died right then and there.

There were four people altogether. One was a scowling, strapping older woman whose entire countenance screamed big dick energy, with dark brown hair cut short and dark eyes accompanied by scars dotting her slender face. She was beautiful and looked like she could kill anyone with just a look, rather than the sword and shield she was gripping professionally. Next to her stood a lanky and pale bald man with pointed ears. _An elf,_ Bridget realized excitedly even though he gave off a weird vibe that make her incredibly uncomfortable. Maybe it was because he was a mage like her, judging by the long stick with a weird little crystal at the top exuding a cold and frozen magical energy, and this was the first time she had finally met another mage. But it was probably just because he looked like an egg with that bald head of his. Next to him was a man so short and stout and bulky that he was obviously a dwarf, with a roguish stubbly face and a broken nose. He had reddish-orange hair tied up in the back and wore a shirt unbuttoned to show his entire swarthy chest, and his fingers were tapping a complicated-looking crossbow of sorts eagerly. When he noticed Bridget sizing him up, he gave her a wink, and she immediately decided that she liked him.

It was the fourth person that caused Bridget to have a heart attack.

She was a qunari. She had to be, with her massive size as she towered over even Blackwall, and gorgeous gray skin in addition to the two curling horns protruding from either sides of her head. Her nose was elegant and aquiline, despite the ragged scar that ran across the middle as if someone had tried to slice through her face. Her hair was a beautiful silver, not unlike Hope’s scales, and it rested elegantly in a tight ponytail that reached the middle of her waist. She was a mage too, if the staff in her gloved hands had anything to say about it, and looking at her made Bridget feel as if she was getting pulled into the storm again. And her eyes—god, her eyes were as green as a forest and put the mockery of the color up in the sky to shame, with little flecks of golden sunlight scattered throughout them. 

She spoke before she could stop herself.

“I...y-you...qunari...hah...”

The qunari woman raised a perfect eyebrow and gave an amused chuckle, her smirk brighter than a thousand suns. “It’s okay, take your time,” she joked soothingly, as if placating a stray dog.

“Hnnngh...big.” Bridget just kept staring as little gay warning signs went off like police sirens in her brain. 

_Oh fuck me in the ass, if all of the women here in Thedas look like her and the scary sword lady, then I’m gonna be an absolute hot gay mess._

“Please excuse her reaction, she’s never seen a qunari before,” Blackwall quickly came to Bridget’s rescue and stepped protectively in front of her. Bridget appreciated it somewhat. But he blocked out her view of the most gorgeous woman she had ever seen, so at the same time she was a little irritated. “And neither have I before, for that matter,” he added in a low voice that only she could hear.

“You’re fucking beautiful so please feel free to crush my head between your thighs any time,” Bridget stated in the most sincere tone she could muster without tripping over her words like a newborn deer.

“Duly noted,” the qunari responded amiably, ignoring the dwarf’s obnoxiously loud bouts of poorly hidden snorts. “I’m Adaar. Vazrah Adaar. I’m an agent of the Inquisition. We’re here to ask you some questions about the Grey Wardens and see if their disappearance has anything to do with the death of Divine Justinia and the Breach.”

Well.

That was a lot to unpack in one sentence.

Blackwall’s face crumbled into a mask of dark suspicion immediately. “Maker’s balls! The Gray Wardens had nothing to do with the Divine’s death,” he all but growled, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I wasn’t accusing Wardens. Yet.” Vazrah held up her hands peacefully. “I merely wanted answers. The Inquisition heard about your efforts in the Hinterlands regarding recruiting possible Wardens. You’re the only one left, as far as we can tell.”

“First off, I didn’t know they’d disappeared. It’s what we do. No more Blight, no more Wardens. But I can tell you one thing—no Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn’t political. I haven’t seen another Warden in months anyway. I travel alone, recruiting.”

His hackles were raised like a wounded dog. The arrival of this...Inquisition agent, and then questioning about the Wardens was really getting to him, and it concerned Bridget greatly. She hadn’t seen him this upset since meeting him; not even when his handful of other trips to the Crossroads were rife with bad news such as the day there had been mages and templars killing each other right in front of the refugees.

“Ugh.” Vazrah let out a frustrated sigh, tugging at her braid. “Damn. I was really hoping for some answers. A little tired of being sent all over for, well...nothing.”

She turned to her three companions, obviously disappointed. “Guess that’s it here, then. We might as well head back to Haven and see if Leliana has anymore leads for us.” 

“Wait—Inquisition, did you say?” Blackwall cleared his throat, glancing sideways at Bridget with one of those unreadable expressions that were beginning to become the bane of her existence. “Grey Wardens...can inspire. Make you better than you think you are. If you’re trying to find out the truth behind the hole in the sky, and who killed the Divine, maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me. There are treaties the Inquisition can use, and I think...I’ll do a lot more good with you lot than I have teaching bandits how to properly hit each other with the right end of the sword. Oh, and she’s coming with. ...I-if she wishes to, I mean.” He gestured to Bridget and rubbed the back of his head, a chagrined look flashing across his face upon the realization that he had basically tried to make the decision for her.

“And what can you do?” the scary-looking woman asked acidicly. Her accent was strange and hard to place, but Bridget would let listen to her all fucking day and night if she asked.

“What the Seeker means,” the dwarf cut in with a deep and jovial voice, “is whether or not you know how to fight.”

As an answer Bridget splayed out her hand and in the flat of her palm summoned a golf ball sized orb of electricity. The magic fizzled out lamely after a few seconds, but she had made her point.

“Excellent. The Inquisition could always make use of more mages,” the elf intoned solemnly and Bridget was hit with the largest sense of “holier than thou” aura emanating from him.

_The scary sword lady is questionable but most likely a cactus with a heart of gold. The dwarf is one hundred percent a bro and looks to be perfect platonic cuddle buddy material. The elf is not to be trusted. And Vazrah could stab me with her horns and I’d thank her._

“Well, that settles it! Welcome to the Inquisition, Warden Blackwall, and…I’m sorry, but I don’t think I ever caught your name?” Vazrah peered at Bridget curiously, as if truly noticing her for the first time, but it was obvious that she was just taken aback by Bridget’s state of dress. Washing the same set of clothes in a lake for the better part of two weeks really did not make for a good first impression in the fashion department.

Part of Bridget wanted to bask in the glory of the qunari’s gaze. A very large and very gay part. 

“Bridget. I’m...not from around here,” she answered evasively, avoiding four curious sets of eyes. She didn’t think the tale of her previous living arrangement in another world would go over very well, at least not yet. Blackwall seemed to wordlessly agree for he gave her a subtle nod and did not add anything by way of her origins.

It seemed to placate the group for now. Blackwall excused himself to go and gather some things from the cabin, leaving Bridget all alone in her shabby clothes and untamed hair and the sudden crass revelation that she hadn’t paid attention to her reflection in the lake for nearly two weeks. She hadn’t felt the need to; it wasn’t like she was trying to impress Blackwall—

_Not yet at least._

—and it had been somewhat freeing to just go with the flow and not give a shit about what she looked like. But standing in front of the diverse group, who were all some varying degrees of put-together and well-dressed, she felt her face burn in shame.

“Is there anything you need to get that you’ll need in Haven?” Vazrah’s gentle voice roused Bridget from her racing thoughts. Maybe she could read minds. Or maybe Bridget was simply an open book, and her mortification was clear as day.

“Nope.” She shook her head, glad to at least be wearing her very dirty tennis shoes for once. “I like to travel light,” she joked, though no one laughed.

“No staff?” The elf questioned in an even tone, staring intently at Bridget with eyes that made her feel naked. She wanted to smite his bald eggy ass with a lightning bolt.

“I, uh...I’ve never used one before.”

“She’s an apostate,” the scary sword lady breathed with a measured amount of distrust, and Bridget didn’t miss the way her hand moved quickly to her weapon.

“So is Solas,” Vazrah nodded at the elf, who presumably was the Solas in question. “And technically so am I, Cassandra. She clearly isn’t part of the rebellion, otherwise she wouldn’t be here with a Warden. Plus, she hasn’t tried summoning a demon or anything yet, so I think she’s safe.” Her full lips spread into a mischievous smirk, and Bridget felt herself timidly sharing a smile.

“Bonfire here is the blessed _Herald_ of Andraste, by the way,” the dwarf piped up, gesturing magnanimously to Vazrah as one night announce a member of nobility. “Since she’s a mage and a former Tal Vashoth mercenary, I think you’ll be fine in Haven.”

“Bonfire?” Bridget’s nose scrunched up in confusion, choosing to focus on the...less complicated moniker.

“Varric enjoys his nicknames. I was the only one to survive the explosion at the Conclave, and my speciality is fire magic, so…” Vazrah shrugged, and when the dwarf—Varric—edged closer to her it really drove home how massive she was. Or how small he was. Either way, next to Blackwall, the qunari and the dwarf were definitely her favorite people in Thedas so far. Not that she had many other examples to compare them to.

Blackwall chose that moment to emerge from the cabin with a rucksack slung across his shoulder and his shield and sword properly fastened to his armor. Bridget slyly observed the fact that his beard looked just a tad more presentable. The image of him hurriedly combing through it with his fingers made her snort in amusement. 

He handed her a second rucksack and when she peeked in, she beamed. “Aw, Blackwall! You trust me with the food! I’m touched. See how far we’ve come since our first fateful encounter?”

“I trust you with _your_ food,” Blackwall corrected with a scoff, but his eyes were bright and lighthearted. Bridget hummed and stuck her tongue out childishly, hoping she was the only one who could hear just how fast her heart was beating.

“If you are finished here, we should go. The Herald must return to Haven immediately.” Cassandra cleared her throat with an authoritative air. Something told Bridget she never removed that armor of hers, both figuratively and physically.

“We’ve got mounts stationed at a camp just down the hill,” Vazrah explained as she took the lead, hopefully unaware of just how intent Bridget’s gaze was on her backside. Her glorious, perfectly-sculpted backside that was nestled quite comfortably within those skin-tight leggings of hers…

“Wait, camp down the hill? As in, down the hill from the lake?” Bridget looked back and forth rapidly between the group. “Has...has the Inquisition been here the whole time?”

“For a couple of days, yes. We’ve been scouting the Hinterlands, and assisting the refugees when we could. We’ve even broken through the strongholds of the templars and apostate mages so that the roads would be safer to travel.”

“You’re forgetting all the rifts you’ve been sealing and how ass-deep in demons we’ve been,” Varric called out.

_Wow. I really need to get out more. Then again, I’ve pretty much just stuck to the cabin and lake because the thought of venturing any further when I still kinda don’t know what the fuck is going on half the time scares the shit out of me._

_...wait. “Sealing rifts”?_

Bridget opened her mouth to ask what Varric was talking about, but Vazrah must have sensed what was coming because she held her finger up in the universal gesture of silence. She pulled the leather glove off of her left hand and instead of grey skin, there was a motley of diseased glowing green—the same color as the hole in the sky. 

“This...is what makes me the Herald of Andraste.” Vazrah’s obvious disdain was clear in the bitter tone of her voice. “Some people think this mark was given to me by Andraste after she supposedly saved me at the Conclave. Some people think it’s evil. I just think it’s a pain in my ass, but if it can seal the rifts that are showing up everywhere then...it’s good for something. Even if it has turned me into some kind of religious icon.”

They reached the bottom of the hill, and thus entering new and unfamiliar territory for Bridget. Canvas tents dotted the marshy area and people in armor and funny hats milled around. Racks with various weapons stood near a couple of the tents, and there was a mini training ring nestled within the puddles. A banner fluttered in the wind with a weird design in the middle of the red fabric; it looked like an eyeball with hair. The camp was actually perched on a bluff of sorts and looked over a spacious field filled with destroyed houses and burnt trees, most likely the aftermath of fights between mages and templars. Bridget was hit with just how cloistered she’d forced herself to be even though it was a new world, and a new chance to actually do something with meaning. 

_You can give a girl magic and bring her to a new world, but she’s still going to be a lazy piece of shit who gets stuck in a stifling routine because she’s terrified of fucking things up._

Her momentary pity party was interrupted when her focus was drawn to a padlock a little ways away from the tents. She was racing over before she could stop herself, voice high pitched in utter delight.

“What is _that_?!”

There was a small group of sturdy-looking horses grazing within the paddock. They didn’t even give Bridget a second glance when she ran up to the fence. But the thing that was nibbling daintily on the grass only inches away from the fence was definitely not a horse. It was about as big as one, but it had no fur as far as Bridget could tell and was kind of like a cross between a pig, an elephant (with no trunk), and a hippo. It was fat, chunky, had dark brown skin, and curled ram’s horns not unlike Vazrah’s. It raised its head and stared at Bridget with curious bovine eyes, the ears at the top of its head twitching.

It was the most beautiful evolutionary disaster in the world.

“I love you.” Bridget reached out a hand and the thing sniffed at it with its enormous, bulky head. The horns rubbed against her shoulder as she leaned closer to pat it on the nose gently, and it let out a low rumble that was unlike any other animal sound she had ever heard.

“That is a nuggalope. They are quite rare in this part of Ferelden. They are distant cousins of the smaller nug, and have been bred and trained to be used as mounts. This fellow was being transported illegally until the Inquisition apprehended the smugglers. He has been quite wary of even the best handlers; I am shocked he’s letting you touch him.” Solas was standing next to Bridget, but she didn’t even care. All of her focus was on the chunky bastard that was now gumming her hand with a very slimy and large tongue, and her heart melted. 

She remembered then that she had a cat back in the other world. She didn’t know she had forgotten.

She couldn’t remember the cat’s name.

She couldn’t remember her last name, either.

_...it’s not important. None of that is important anymore._

“I love him, and I want to ride him and kiss him and feed him whatever the hell this chunky bastard eats. His name is Pookie.” Bridget maneuvered her arms through the gaps in the paddock and wrapped around Pookie’s cumbersome head. The nuggalope let out another rumbling call that was something between a moo and a growl and started chewing on the edge of her jacket sleeve.

No one argued with her.

Five minutes later, Pookie (and horses for the rest of the group) was all saddled up, and Bridget entered the second chapter of her new life in Thedas on his broad chunky back.

\---

Haven was a freezing dump.

Not that it was a bad thing. It was very Game of Thrones-esque and Bridget half expected Jon Snow to walk through the gates in all his brooding glory.

Unfortunately, it was a different guy with a fluffy cloak thing who greeted the group when they rode in. 

The trip from the Hinterlands to Haven only took two days, being that the little pilgrim’s village was located up in the Frostbacks. The closer they had gotten to Haven, the larger the Breach got, and the more it looked like a festering wound torn in the flesh of the sky. The stretching prickly sensation that burrowed under Bridget’s skin got worse the closer they rode to the Breach as well. Snow covered everything in a silvery layer of sparkling dust. The cold made Bridget’s cheeks flush and her teeth chatter, but she welcomed it with open arms. She had been born in the winter, and had always been fond of its chilly embrace. At least, she thought she had been born in winter. There were things she was starting to lose. Or maybe it was simply because she had never had them in the first place. Maybe it didn’t matter. 

She needed Hope, but the dragon still hadn’t appeared in so much as a whisper. 

“Welcome back, Herald.” The posh accent jolted Bridget out of her thoughts. She realized her grip on the reins were so tight that her hands looked pale and bloodless. She slid off of Pookie’s back with a grunt, sizing up the man. He was blond, had a decently handsome face if you were into the clean shaven pretty boy sort of thing, but his eyes were haunted and below them were dark shadows. A sword was attached to his belt and one hand hovered near it in a way that was so subtle that it was simultaneously painfully obvious.

_He’s a templar._

Bridget didn’t know how she knew that.

“Commander Cullen, can you show these two to some spare lodgings while Cassandra and I speak with Leliana and Josephine?” Vazrah hopped off of her horse with ease and patted its rear end affectionately. “They’ve decided to offer whatever support they can to the Inquisition’s cause.”

Blackwall gave the man a respectful nod. “Commander. I am Warden Constable Blackwall. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard you’ve done fine work with the Inquisition’s soldiers.”

“A commander is only as good as his army. There are many fine men and women willing to devote themselves to the Inquisition,” Cullen answered amiably, but his eyes remained on Bridget as he spoke. “And you are?”

Her throat closed up momentarily and her hands felt like two sets of bricks. Her tongue was a wasp’s nest, all buzzing and stinging and fluttering around uselessly. She wanted to run. She wanted Hope. He was a templar. He was going to take her magic. The only thing good about her in this new world, and he was going to pluck it out of her like a butcher ripping the feathers off of a chicken. She couldn’t let him. She _wouldn’t_. She wanted to call the storm and trap him in a cage of thunder and lightning, she wanted to—

“You alright, Princess?”

Varric’s voice was gentle and his hand was soft as he lay it on Bridget’s arm. She jerked, mind snapping out of its haze, and wished desperately for something to hide in. Away from the concerned gazes of Blackwall and Vazrah. Away from the indifference of Cassandra and Solas. Away from Cullen. Away.

“Curly, you take Hero and show him around. I’ll take her for a little walk instead. I think she’s just a little tired from the ride.” Varric’s hand slid down her arm and grasped Bridget’s own, his grip tight and confident. She met Blackwall’s eyes and they were so full of worry and unease that she almost began to cry, standing there at the gates of Haven while paralyzed with fear like an idiot.

“...alright, then. Warden Blackwall, if you would follow me please…” Blackwall disappeared into the mouth of the beast with the templar. Bridget watched him go and wanted to scream at him to turn around and come back. She wanted to race forward and throw her arms around him and never let go.

_Don’t leave me too. Don’t leave me like Hope did. Please. Don’t go._

Vazrah said something inaudible to Varric, and he nodded. Bridget didn’t even realize the qunari and company were gone—including Pookie—until Varric tugged her away from the gate and led her to a small patch of snow covered trees.

Bridget let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Varric was still grasping her hand, and somewhere deep down a voice told her that she could kill him if she called the storm to come to her aid.

The voice definitely wasn’t Hope.

“I’m gonna level with ya, Princess.” Even though he was so damn short, his voice boomed with a tender authority. “I know what a panic attack looks like. And I know you’re a mage who hasn’t had much training. I’m probably being presumptuous, and you can hate me for this later, but I could tell you were about to lose it as soon as Curly started talking.”

“He’s a templar,” Bridget replied in a despondent tone, shivering. It wasn’t from the cold. “I-I could feel it. I could feel him looking through me, wanting to rip the storm out, wanting to—wait. Princess?”

“I’m a writer. I enjoy poetic irony. Your clothes and personality are the exact opposite of the typical nobility of both Orlais and Ferelden. Plus, I think you’d look quite charming in a crown.” Varric eased her down to sit on a fallen log, brushing some snow off as he took his place next to her. He finally let go of her hand and part of her wanted to scream at him for it, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. “Cullen was a templar. He left the order after some bullshit happened in Kirkwall. I was there. His concerns now are leading the Inquisition’s army. He won’t hurt you, especially if you’re as inexperienced with magic as Chuckles and Bonfire can tell you are.”

“I want Hope,” Bridget blurted out, and finally began to cry.

It was a breakdown two weeks in the making.

Her body was wracked with sobs as tears dripped down her cheeks and onto the snow, making little holes wherever they dropped. Varric let her cry and rubbed her back in silence. The soft quiet of the snow did little to mute her hiccups and gasps for air. When she finally stopped, her face felt raw and her eyes were burning. She rubbed at her skin, hoping to scrub away the evidence of tears with her bare fingers. 

“Now I _definitely_ don’t look like a princess,” Bridget managed to joke limply as she wiped snot away from her nose. 

“Nah, I wouldn’t say that. All girls are princesses. Or queens. Cassandra is literally a princess from Nevarra—but don’t call her that to her face unless you want to be black and blue for a month. You’re still Princess in my eyes.” Varric pulled out a handkerchief from out of nowhere and handed it to her. Bridget mumbled her thanks and wiped her face a little better than her hands could, and as she set it down on the makeshift bench she felt a familiar prickling that lit up every nerve in her body.

And then Hope was in her lap in all her pristine, alabaster glory, and Bridget nearly lost herself to another round of tears.

She let out a pained sound as she flung her arms around Hope, pulling the dragon to her chest and clinging to her as if it would prevent her from ever leaving again. A million questions threatened to fall from her lips, and her thoughts were far too fast to catch and properly sort through. “I thought you were gone forever,” Bridget finally whispered hoarsely, her eyes feeling hot with the warning signs of more tears.

“I know. I am so sorry, my sweet girl. It was the hole in the sky. It ripped open the Veil and I...became lost,” Hope explained gently, her sweet scent wafting through the air like incense. “I couldn’t find you, even though I knew where you were. But then I felt your fear, and I felt you let go, and it led me back to you.”

“Maferath’s balls, is that a dragon?” Bridget had momentarily forgotten about the dwarf sitting next to her. His eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open ever so slightly.

She smiled, even though it was a shaky one, and loosened her embrace on Hope. The dragon crawled up to her shoulder, and extended a tiny clawed paw out to Varric, who took it and gave it a shake even though he looked like he wanted to do the opposite. “Thank you for helping Bridget when I was lost, child of the Stone.” Hope’s voice was thick and heavy with relief. “My name is Hope. I have...taken Bridget under my wings; forgive the phrase, if you would.” Varric’s eyebrows raised but the beginnings of a grin slowly began to spread, and Bridget knew that everything would be alright. 

“Are you a spirit? A demon? Because if you’re possessing her, then I really don’t think the Inquisition is going to accept an abomination, even if the Herald herself gave her the a-okay.” Varric gazed at Hope with a morbid and unbridled curiosity. It was obvious the mental gears were going into overdrive.

“What I am is something all of Thedas no longer has a name for.” Hope was wistful as she spoke, a certain degree of measured sorrow coursing through her voice like a melody. “Bridget and I are connected, but it’s not the same instance of possession that your friend Anders suffered.”

Varric stiffened visibly at the comment. Bridget remained silent despite wanting to know what Hope meant, and just how she knew.

“Ah, shit.” He lowered his head to look at the ground. “Of course the weird pocket dragon knows about Blondie. Well, the whole fucking world knows about him in some way or another.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Bridget said softly, hoping to cut through whatever melancholy had settled upon him. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him, resisting the urge to lay her head atop his. He sighed but didn’t move away, and even reached a hand out to pat her shoulder. “I was going to do something stupid, and you saved me. Hope is my emotional support dragon. You’ve now become my emotional support dwarf...if you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve got a lot of experience with helping mages work through panic attacks. I seem to be irresistible to you lot.” He rolled his eyes, momentarily going back in time judging by the faraway look in them.

“It’s the chest hair.”

He actually laughed at that. A full, rich hearty laugh, and when he was done he gave her a quick hug in return before pulling away and standing up. Bridget followed suit, wiping at her face one last time before clearing her throat. “Okay. I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I’ve got Hope now.”

“I know that you’re not exactly what you seem, and that’s alright. I won’t push you to talk, because that would be hypocritical of me, and I actually want to be friends with you. But when you’re ready, Princess, I want to hear your story. Who knows,” Varric wiggled his eyebrows and puffed out his chest. “I might even write a book about it.”

“I don’t think it would be the kind of book people would want to read, but...thanks. Really.” She gave him an appreciative smile and followed him back to the gates of Haven, where she managed to walk through without falling in the mud and snow. It was like the camp back in the Hinterlands only on a much larger scale. Tents were set up everywhere, and people of all shapes and sizes milled about aimlessly. In the distance was a large stone building and the sound of murmured chanting could be heard faintly. Up a set of stairs the tents gave way to wooden buildings with smoke rising from their chimneys. In the middle of the yard there was a bunch of training dummies being whammed on with swords and axes and the like. A ramshackle, hastily-built stable containing the mounts from earlier (including Pookie, bless his chunky soul) was situated next to a decently sized forge. A familiar figure stood next to the forge and handed the smith a sword before walking into the building connected to the giant fire pit.

Varric led Bridget across the muddy field and they came to stop at the forge. The heat it gave off was utterly welcoming, and Hope snuck under Bridget’s hair before anyone could see her. “Well, this is where I’ll leave you. Stop by the tavern later if you’re feeling up to it. I’ll buy you a drink.” 

Bridget grimaced as she remembered the godawful taste of the whiskey she had snuck from Blackwall. “Only if you’ve got daiquiris and mai tais, Teapot. Which I highly doubt you do.”

“...Teapot?” Varric chose to ignore the drink comment, most likely because he had no idea they even were, because this was a fantasy world where everyone sustained themselves on wine and medieval moonshine.

“Short and stout,” Bridget answered with a shit-eating grin, poking his frowning cheeks.

Varric threw his hands up in the air dramatically, groaning as if she had stabbed him in the gut and left him for dead. “Shit,” he cursed, giving her a glare that was half-petulant and half-impressed. “That’s a good one. Can’t believe you’re the first to call me that. ...don’t say it in front of Vazrah, please. She’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“I make no promises!” Bridget called after him in singsong as he stalked away grumbling to himself. The people in the forge gave her curious glances as she passed them by but no one spoke to her, which she considered a victory. She threw open the door to the building (which was styled like the cabin at the lake) and stepped in, waving cheerfully to a startled-looking Blackwall who was sitting at a small table with a stack of papers in front of him, his large hand grasping a quill pen. “Sup, dude? Look who’s back!” She pointed excitedly to Hope, who stuck her elegant head out from underneath Bridget’s messy mop of hair.

“Ah...hello, Hope. Good to see you again?” Blackwall scratched his beard awkwardly, avoiding Bridget’s eyes. “How…are you feeling, Bridget?”

_My name sounds way too good coming out of his mouth._

“Better,” she replied brightly, scooting over to stand next to him and glancing briefly at the papers. They swirled with unfamiliar names and terms, but most had that black griffon symbol stamped on the corner. “I freaked out because I could sense Cullen was a templar. And somehow, I could sense his hatred for mages. I don’t care whatever story he’s telling people—he’s got a lot of unresolved bullshit regarding magic, and I don’t like it one bit.”

Blackwall was silent, studying the papers with a false intensity. Bridget could tell that he respected Cullen; it was that damned soldier’s honor, probably. His next words surprised her. “Lady Pentaghast is a Seeker, and they are a different kind of templar. Yet you were fine with her.”

He had a point, and she hadn’t realized it until now.

“I think…” Bridget frowned as she mulled the epiphany over, tapping her foot on the wooden floor impatiently. Cassandra was frightening, but it wasn’t because of her status as a Seeker. It was more her general “take no shit” personality. “She doesn’t flat out hate mages,” Bridget answered finally. “She is wary around magic, and maybe she’s quick to judge, but there’s no endless well of complete and utter contempt in her like there is Cullen. But it’ll be fine from now on. Hope is back and Varric is very kind. I’ll just do my best to avoid him. ...sorry if I worried you,” she added bashfully, biting her lower lip as she averted her gaze from him and instead pretended to observe the inside of the house. “I honestly didn’t know any of that was going to happen.”

Blackwall suddenly got up from the chair and set the papers and quill down, putting his hand on her shoulders and giving them a squeeze. She could feel the warmth of his bare skin through her ragged jacket and shirt, and despite how toasty it was inside she repressed a shudder.

“No, I should be the one to apologize. All of this is still very new, especially your magic. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, but I don’t know a damn thing about magic, and I feel terrible there isn’t much I can do to help you.” Blackwall’s eyes were full of an intensity that reminded her of a bear on the hunt. “Does Varric know…?” 

Bridget shook her head and edged just slightly closer to him. She wondered if he would let her hug him whenever she needed a comforting touch. She imagined his arms folding around her and encapsulating her in a bastion of sanctuary and refuge. Hope poked her cheek slyly with the tip of her tail and Bridget forced her mind back to the present, feeling her face heat up as she covertly stepped away from Blackwall.

“He knows I’m different. He didn’t ask, and he said he wouldn’t push. But I trust him just as I trust you, and I’m...very glad he knew how to snap me out of it. I think I would have done something very stupid that might have gotten me killed if he hadn’t stepped in.”

_It probably wouldn’t have been a good first impression on the rest of the Inquisition if I attempted to murder their commander immediately upon meeting him._

“Ah. Good.” 

There was a moment of silence between them, but not an entirely unpleasant one. Blackwall’s face brightened suddenly and he turned to a cabinet up against the wall, grabbing a bundle that Bridget hadn’t noticed before and placing it in her hands.

“While you were with Varric, Lady Adaar dropped these clothes by and told me to give them to you. I’ll step out so you can change. There’s a basin with water if you want to wash your face too.” He hurriedly left and shut the door gingerly behind him, as if she was going to start stripping while he was still in the room. Which she definitely wasn’t going to, and he had already seen her half naked so it wasn’t like there was a lot left to be imagined.

Hope hopped off of her shoulder as Bridget began to tear her old clothes off, tossing them unceremoniously to the floor. They looked even more beaten to submission when in a crumpled pile on the ground. There was a bar of soap that smelled like cinnamon next to the basin of water, and she scrubbed her face so hard she was sure it was shining. A horsehair brush had been shoved between the layers of clothes, along with some twine that probably doubled as hair ties in Thedas. Bridget made a mental note to thank Vazrah profusely as she ripped through the knots in her hair until it was manageable enough to re-braid.

The attire the qunari had picked out was to die for.

A pair of dark brown leggings similar to Vazrah’s clung to Bridget’s butt snugly, but it was made of some sort of fleece on the inside so it was warmer than her ripped jeans. A white, flowy shirt straight out of a harlot regency romance novel showed off her chest in a tasteful manner. Over the ensemble she slipped on a silken cloak inlaid with some type of fur that was the color of the deep sea and even had one of those hoods that made her feel like a peasant girl about to take over a kingdom. She fastened the cloak in the front so that there was a window of her collarbone showing. There was even a pair of black leather boots that made her feel like she had just stepped into a ren faire.

Well, technically she had jumped and fallen in, but that was besides the point.

When Bridget stepped outside, Blackwall—who had been leaning against the wall beside the door with his arms crossed—fumbled with the griffon badge she had seen him messing with on occasion and it slipped from his fingers, sinking into the dirty snow. 

“Maker,” he breathed, and that was all he said before Bridget bent down and snatched the badge from the ground, brushing bits of mud and snow off before handing it to him. He mumbled his thanks and shoved it into his pocket, clearing his throat. “Glad to see it all...fits well. Lady Adaar wasn’t sure if she’s gotten your, ah, measurements right from just looking at you.”

“I could kiss Vazrah right now,” Bridget admitted gleefully as she did a little spin, letting the ends of the cloak twirl in the air. “It feels so nice to wear clean clothes!” 

His cheeks became ruddy and he started to itch at his beard. She was starting to think it was a nervous tic, and quite frankly it was strangely charming. “I should show you to where the commander said we could borrow a couple of tents. We can—”

“Nope.” Bridget cut him off with a shushing sound as Hope trotted out of the building and fluttered up to her shoulder. 

**I dragged your old clothes into the fireplace to let them burn** , the dragon informed her mentally, and Bridget nodded her thanks. Blackwall just blinked at her, baffled. “Tonight I am sleeping in the stables with Pookie. My chunky bastard needs me. Well, actually, I don’t have the mental energy to deal with more people today because haha holy shit, it’s been a long fucking last couple of days. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

She spun on her heels and marched across the field towards the stables, tasting the bitter flavor of guilt spreading across her tongue. She didn’t want to leave Blackwall hanging, but she was being honest; Bridget’s capacity for social interaction had been stretched beyond measure, and all she wanted to do was pass the hell out for twelve hours.

A couple of horses lifted their heads in interest when Bridget walked by but, upon seeing she had no treats to spoil them with, they went back to whatever horsey business they were conducting. Pookie’s stall was at the very end and when she hoisted herself over the gate and into the stall, the nuggalope lumbered over with a pleased rumble. She scratched his ears and patted his sides affectionately.

There was a thick woolen riding blanket was draped over the side of the stall. Bridget tugged it free and lay it down across a mound of hay and bedding that bore no visible signs of manure. Flopping down on the makeshift bed, she let out a long-suffering sigh and closed her eyes, feeling Hope crawl near her head and curl up silently. The stables smelled like horses and hay, and it was warm with all the large bodies. The sounds of Haven were reduced to nothing but white noise, and she felt her being drift off into sleep within minutes.

_Evie._

The name rushed through her mind and with it, the image of black and white fur with yellow eyes and a pink nose.

Bridget smiled, and tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.

_My cat’s name is Evie._

It was her last conscious thought before she descended head first into dreamland.


	5. allies and adversaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my canon-divergent stuff is starting to pop up but it's kinda subtle. and also a case of "holy shit i don't want to go back and rifle through hours of dialogue/lore to get everything absolutely perfect."
> 
> so i couldn't go to work for a week due to this awful polar vortex shit and i started up another dai file to pass the time and lo and behold it became a blackwall romance. i swear i was gonna do sera but this self insert got me hooked. i actually made vazrah for it lmao, but of course she doesn't get her braid because console doesn't allow modding and it's making me more and more sad. qunari women are so hot y'all i love them pls pls pls let us be one in da4 bioware i am literally begging you to keep qunari as a playable race forever
> 
> don't have much else to say other than i wish ao3 kept the formatting of a google doc so i didn't have to manually go and add the italics and stuff because it's a pain in the ass when you just keep scrolling along to find the right words to format.

Bridget awoke the next day to a slimy sensation on her face. Her eyes shot open in a panic, only to be met with Pookie’s wrinkly face towering over her as the nuggalope snuffled and mouthed her hair. 

“Augh, Pookie! You’re getting me all nasty! Stop!” She rolled away, shoving her hands up in defense to prevent getting further slimed on by the mixture of saliva and mucus. He bellowed out a low rumble, satisfied with his work, and stomped off towards a bucket of feed. Bridget grumbled irritably as she wiped her face off with the blanket, rubbing sleep out of her eyes and letting out a gargantuan yawn. 

She had slept like the dead and now felt more refreshed and energized than she had ever experienced since coming to Thedas. Her mind felt clear, her skin had graduated from being a garden of thorns to a simple dull prickling that could be ignored, and her eyes saw everything in a much brighter light. But that was probably just all the snow and ice reflecting the sun or something.

“Good morning. You slept for quite a long time. It’s already the early afternoon. Blackwall brought you food and was going to wake you up, but I asked him to let you rest. You needed it.” Hope was perched on the ledge of the stable, tail swishing lazily back and forth. Next to her was a basket full of bread, cheese, and meat, some of which looked suspiciously nibbled on. Bridget reached over and plucked a small loaf out of the basket and shoved it in the pocket of her cloak surreptitiously before grabbing some of the cheese and meat to actually eat. It tasted decent enough for how hungry she was, but medieval fantasy food paled in comparison to a chicken and mushroom alfredo thin crust pizza.

“You sure it’s a good idea to be out in the open like that?” she asked with a mouth full of food, tossing one of the bread loaves to Pookie. 

Hope gave an oddly human shrug with her tiny serpentine shoulders, eyes glittering mischievously. “If anyone asks, we can just say I was a magical experiment gone wrong and now I am your pet.” However, she hopped onto Bridget’s shoulder and slithered into the confines of her cloak, where the folds hid her small body for the most part. Her voice was slightly muffled as she continued speaking. “It will bode much better than saying I come from the Fade, especially with Templars and those who do not understand magic filling much of the Inquisition’s ranks. Blackwall and Varric should be the only ones to know of my true nature for now. And perhaps that qunari...Vazrah, was it?”

“Ughhhhh, she’s so fuckin’ _hot_ ,” Bridget sighed dreamily as she finished off the food, giving Pookie a goodbye pat and exiting the stable. Hope’s form shook with silent laughter and Bridget grunted defensively, poking at where she thought the dragon’s head was. “Oh, shut up! I have a thing for women who look like they could crush my head between their thighs like a watermelon, okay? And she’s a mage too, so maybe she could help me out with some magic stuff, like getting a staff.”

“That is an excellent idea. I believe she is in the chantry with some of the Inquisition advisors.” Luckily Hope’s voice was muffled enough that no one around could hear her as Bridget walked by the multitudes of Inquisition members training in the field, heading up the stairs and through the gates that held the actual pilgrimage site of Haven. No one so much as gave her a second glance, despite Bridget’s inner terror of being certain that everyone would be able to tell that she was definitely not from around here. But...the humans and elves and dwarves and occasional qunari were all far too occupied with whatever it is they were doing to even pay her any heed. 

The chantry was the largest building in the entire camp—it was located at the top of the slope, and upon entering Bridget’s nose was immediately assaulted by various heavy and slightly overwhelming aromas of incense. It was dark inside and murmurs of religious chanting from huddled groups of pilgrims and the devout scattered around sitting in pews or flipping through large tomes. 

_Damn, it’s even more medieval than I imagined. It’s literally like I stepped into a fifteenth century church in peasant Europe. All we need is some villagers dying from the plague, monks doing some sick Gregorian chants, women being accused of being witches, and we’re all set._

“Uh...hi,” Bridget cleared her throat awkwardly as she came up to a woman standing apart from the rest, leaning over a podium-like structure with one of those giant books setting on top of it. She had wrinkled brown skin and wore the ridiculous Andrastian red and white get up, complete with the overly tall pope hood thing. But her eyes were kind when she turned her attention to Bridget, and the judgey “holier than thou” atmosphere that radiated off most of the people who wore the same outfit didn’t so much as even exist on this woman. 

“Yes? How may I help you, my child?” Her voice was an accented elegant French—no, Orlesian—as she spoke in soft tones.

“I’m looking for the Herald. Vazrah? I was told she might be here in the chantry. I mean, she’s probably super busy with all this Inquisition stuff, but I just wanted to ask her a question. If that’s okay. I, uh...I’m new,” she finished lamely.

“The Herald is in the war room at present. I’m certain she wouldn’t mind an interruption, but it is some...others that are with her that I am not entirely sure about.” The woman gestured to the big set of heavy wooden doors only a couple feet away, where Bridget could hear muffled conversation from. “I am Mother Giselle,” she added with a polite nod. “If you have any need for spiritual guidance, I am always here and willing to lend a hand.”

“Haha, yeah, I, uh...I’ll be sure to take you up on that. Praise Andraste!” Bridget’s hands fumbled in a nervous finger guns salute (the likes of which absolutely no one in Thedas would understand considering guns were most likely definitely not a thing here) before she shot off towards the oak doors, rapping once loudly with her knuckles before yanking it open and striding in with as much confidence as she could muster.

Which, in reality, was a paltry feat.

There were five figures standing around a large wooden table with a plethora of maps and documents and little chess-like figures, three of whom Bridget recognized—Vazrah, Cassandra, and Cullen. Upon seeing the latter, the Kill Bill sirens immediately started blaring in her mind, but a gentle boop from Hope (who was still covertly hidden within the folds of the cloak) lessened the urge to smite him with a lightning bolt on the spot. Upon her sudden entrance, Cassandra looked irritated, but Bridget was beginning to think that was just her face. Cullen mirrored said perturbed expression. Vazrah was only slightly bemused. 

The shapely, unfamiliar woman standing next to Vazrah was gorgeous. She had dark caramel skin and even darker brown hair that was done in an elegant bun on top of her head. Her eyes were almost the same shade as her hair and she wore a very ostentatious gold and navy dress of some sort. In her hands was a stack of parchment with a pen and a candle securely fastened to a wooden clipboard-like structure. Next to her was a thin and pale woman whose red hair was almost completely obscured by a hood. Her dark eyes were sharp and rimmed with a light yellow eyeshadow, and Bridget got the impression of some sort of predatory bird when she made eye contact with her.

“It’s nice to see our newest addition has impeccable manners,” Cullen grumbled sarcastically, clearly in a manner that was meant for Bridget to hear. 

“I did knock,” Bridget responded as courteously as she could muster before turning her attention to Vazrah and pushing Cullen’s presence out of her mind. “Sorry, it was just...really important that I talked to you for a sec. Unless you’re super busy. In that case, I’ll skedaddle.”

“Actually, I could use a break.” The qunari rolled her head on her shoulders and cracked some joints loudly. “It feels like we’ve been at this since the sun came up. Josephine, Leliana, this is Bridget—Warden Blackwall was looking after her in the Hinterlands. Bridget, this is Josephine Montilyet, ambassador for the Inquisition, and Leliana, our...spymaster. Among other duties.”

“Yes, tactfully put, Adaar.” The sharp-eyed woman in the hood had a lighter Orlesian accent than Mother Giselle as she gave a civil nod to Bridget. A chill went up her spine; Leliana didn’t seem bad and definitely didn’t give off bloodlust the way Cullen did, but there was just something about her that screamed “I won’t hesitate, bitch.” There was probably a multitude of knives hidden on her person.

“A pleasure. Welcome to the Inquisition.” The other woman, Josephine, bowed slightly and her lips drew into a friendly and soft smile. Her sophisticated voice didn’t have an Orlesian accent, but rather one from somewhere else—almost like Cassandra’s yet not quite there. She was lovely; probably the type of person who didn’t have a bad bone in her body. If you looked up the word “genteel” in the dictionary, her picture would be listed right under the definition.

“Don’t miss me too much when I’m gone, ambassador. Fill the void in your heart created by my absence with thoughts of my winsome smile and rippling muscles.” Vazrah gave Josephine a brazen wink, who in turn flushed prettily and somehow sputtered in a refined way, which just made the qunari mage laugh raucously as she marched out of the war room. Bridget waved goodbye and hurried after her.

Vazrah pointedly ignored the various collective murmurs of “greetings, Herald of Andraste” from the religious figures milling about in the chantry, instead quickening her pace. When they exited the chantry the fresh mountain air freed Bridget’s lungs from the stuffiness of the incense. Vazrah continued walking fast and passing everyone who tried to catch her attention without so much as a hello, and Bridget had to practically jog to keep up with her. Vazrah stopped when she came to a little hovel located behind some bigger houses, opening the door and gesturing for Bridget to come inside. It was small and messily decorated, with a fire crackling in the hearth and a messy bed pushed up against the wall. Various items of clothing, bags, and books lay strewn across the wooden floor. In one corner there were about half a dozen staffs shoved haphazardly together. A half-eaten loaf of bread sat on the table and next to it was a bottle of dark red liquid. She shuffled over to the bed and plopped down on it, pushing pillows out of the way and patting the spot next to her. Bridget nearly tripped over a pile of clothes in her eagerness and when she settled in next to Vazrah, she became aware of how good the qunari smelled. Like lavender and lilacs. And she was just so fucking _hot_ and _big_ and—

“So, what did you want to talk about? No one’s giving you any trouble, are they?”

Bridget mentally had to slap herself back into reality and focus on the present rather than whatever fantasies she was starting to entertain.

 _For being a mage_ was silently added onto the end of the sentence, as was an overall concern regarding the bullshit from yesterday’s encounter with Cullen. Vazrah’s green eyes bore into her, all previous joviality replaced with nothing but a gentle, worried curiosity.

“No, not at all. I literally just woke up. I wanted to ask if you had any spare magic sticks.”

Vazrah stared at Bridget as if she had grown another head.

“A staff! I-I meant a staff, not stick!” Bridget hid her crimson face in her hands and judging by the vibrating bundle of scales curled against her chest, Hope was doing her best not to lose her shit laughing. She groaned in humiliation, hoping that maybe the storm would sense the fuckery she had gotten herself into and would put her out of her misery by whisking her away in a tornado. “Look, I say dumb shit a lot! Especially when I’m nervous! And you make me very nervous because you are very big and very pretty and I am very gay.”

_...I didn’t mean to actually say that out loud. Fuck._

A wide, shit-eating grin spread across Vazrah’s face as her eyes glittered with devious intent. She slung an arm around Bridget’s shoulders and ruffled her hair affectionately, all but cackling with glee. “Aw, I’m gonna like having you around, you little ego booster! Every time Josephine doesn’t realize my flirting is serious—which is pretty much all the time—can I have your permission to dramatically fall into your arms and bemoan my lot in life while also begging you to soothe my soul with honeyed words and passionate embraces?”

“I mean...I’d probably fall down because I have the upper body strength of a newborn deer,” Bridget mumbled as she inwardly screamed in sheer joy at the fact that she was pressed up quite snugly against Vazrah. “But if it’ll make you feel better...sure?”

In all honesty, she would probably die from spontaneous human combustion if it actually happened. Bridget could count on her hands the number of times someone of the same sex had actually flirted with her. It was zero. All she had to do was make a fist. Same with any members of the opposite sex. Another fist.

But there was no fucking way she was passing up an opportunity like this. As the saying went...when in Rome, right?

“Hell yes! Just tell me if I overstep any boundaries or make you uncomfortable.” Vazrah patted her cheek fondly. “I thought you only had eyes for Warden Blackwall, actually. You were quite attached to the hip with him when we were returning to Haven. Though your reaction to meeting me was utterly priceless and I’ve wrapped that memory up in a pretty little box where I play it on repeat at night to lull me to sleep.”

Bridget heard none of that save for the mention of Blackwall. She choked and coughed awkwardly, heart beating as it ran around like a panicked wild animal in her rib cage. “W-what?” she squeaked, momentarily forgetting about Hope and hugging her chest in an effort to calm the rapid palpitations emanating from it. The dragon squirmed in offense when Bridget squeezed too hard. 

“Oh, I just assumed you fancied him. You look at him all starry eyed and when you had that moment,” the word was said very gently, and not at all unkindly, “it was obvious you wanted to run to him.” The mischief was gone from Vazrah’s voice and instead she spoke in a comforting, compassionate tone.

“I...don’t know.” Bridget shrugged as she answered honestly, allowing herself to rest her head against the broad shoulder of the qunari woman. “Things like that are weird for me. I can think someone is attractive, and I can like being around them, but...to genuinely feel a connection, one that would make me want to pursue something more, takes a long time. Plus I have crippling low self-esteem and have it in my head that no one would ever want me. I think Blackwall is...wonderful, and kind, and charming in his own way. He’s helped me with a lot, and...accepted me.”

Vazrah nodded patiently, most likely assuming Bridget meant accepting the fact that she was a mage. And Blackwall _had_ , but he’d accepted everything else, and she couldn’t tell Vazrah the whole story just yet.

_Would he accept me if he learned what I did to get here?_

Bridget wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

“I understand. It’s different for everyone. It’s what makes you _you_. I spoke to him briefly while you were still asleep, and frankly I think he’s a fine man with a past he’s desperate to hide or outrun. I was a mercenary before this whole Herald business; I’ve got an eye for reading people. My first impressions of Warden Blackwall are that he’s a good but troubled man, and he just needs a little kindness to help him cross whatever bridge he’s avoiding. But don’t tell him I said that, lest it gives him an ego.” Vazrah rolled her eyes good naturedly.

Bridget didn’t say anything for a few moments, simply relishing in the contact of another person who seemed to truly care and understand. Like Varric—like Hope—Vazrah Adaar has staunchly claimed a spot on Bridget’s emotional support beings list. She cleared her throat as at the same time she cleared a multitude of unnecessary emotions threatened to spill over into tears. “So. You and Josephine, huh?”

Vazrah immediately brightened and she clapped her hands in delight, letting out a little girlish giggle that sounded somewhat strange coming out of a woman her build and bulk. “Oh, I am absolutely _smitten_. She’s a delight. And a savior, because I detest politics and I’m fairly certain the Inquisition would be a heaping pile of horseshit if Josie wasn’t around to smooth things over. But alas…” She flung herself backward dramatically on the bed, placing a hand over her face as she gave a theatrical moan. “The fair maiden seems impervious to my charms! Or, well, Josephine isn’t aware that my attempts are sincere and probably thinks I’m just trying to get into her skirts.”

She grumbled something in a guttural sounding language that was almost like a mix between Russian, German, and a mess of other languages she couldn’t quite name. It was Qunlat, she realized, but that was the extent of what she knew of the language. Bridget had no idea what she was talking about but from the sound of her tone, it was most likely a case of Vazrah berating herself over something. It was probably best to just let her be.

With one final blustery sigh, Vazrah shot back up into a sitting position. A stray blanket got caught on one of her horns on the way up and she expertly flicked it off with a subtle shake of her head. “I’m doing whining. Let’s get you a staff, yeah? I’ve got plenty of spares and they’re much better quality than the shit Seggrit is selling. Did you lose yours?”

“Um...”

_Hope, help! What do I tell her?! ‘Haha, no, actually, I crawled out of a lake after trying to fucking drown myself and decided I wanted to try my hand at being female Thor so I’ve never used a staff in my life’?_

**Tell her your magic manifested only recently. It is not the full truth, but it is not a lie. She will understand. I wouldn’t mention your crossing into this world just yet, no matter how much you wish to.**

_Yeah, good idea. Where were you when I was saying dumb shit only minutes ago? You’re like...ninety percent of my impulse control._

**Enjoying the show, dear heart.**

Hope’s serene laughter echoed across Bridget’s mind and she glowered down at the subtle lump in her cloak, focusing back on Vazrah before the qunari became suspicious. “The thing is, I only recently became a mage. _Very_ recently. I’ve never used a staff, and I haven’t actually done a lot of...magic stuff. If I hadn’t accidentally shocked Blackwall when we first met, he probably wouldn’t even believe that I was a mage. I haven’t wanted to freak him out with spells going awry.”

“Truly?” Vazrah looked only mildly surprised and instead her face melted into an expression more of curiosity than anything else. “Strange. I didn’t think it was possible for magic to manifest so late in a person’s life. It’s a good thing you’ve joined the Inquisition, what with the war going on. I can help you with magic if you’d like. I’m sure Solas would as well; probably not Vivienne, however, since...she’s the way she is.”

“Solas creeps me out for reasons I cannot fully explain and I don’t know who Vivienne is. And you’ve got enough on your plate with all this Herald and Inquisition stuff so I don’t want to distract you too much from that…”

“Oh, please, _distract_ me. I hate politics, remember? If I didn’t have this bloody glowing hand and a quarter of Thedas worshipping it, I would be back with the Valo-Kas blowing shit up for whoever pays the most.”

Vazrah rubbed her forehead and pinched the bridge of her nose disgruntledly. A surge of sympathy flowed through Bridget for the older woman; she couldn’t imagine what it was like to have your entire life thrown upside down on the whim of fate.

...well, she could, but not exactly the same way. Vazrah Adaar was the hero of the story, clearly. Bridget was more like a very minor side character. 

In fact, a very small part of her wanted to believe this was just a very long and complex fever dream and the jump had never happened and she would wake up any moment now.

 _Maybe if this is just a dream and when I wake up, I’ll write it. It’s been so long since I’ve written. I just won’t have me in it. I could name it Dragon Age after the era this world is supposedly currently in. Varric would definitely be a fan favorite. Vazrah and Josephine’s ship name could be Vaseline. ...okay, no, that’s really bad and phonetically doesn’t make sense. Vazephine would be better if I’m going by their names. But Vaseline is so goddamn funny...yep, that’s what I’m calling them from now on._

Vazrah getting off of the bed jostled Bridget from her momentary inner monologue. She made her way to the pile of staffs in the corner and Bridget found herself robotically following. Vazrah started saying something as she rummaged through the pile, the wooden handles clanging loudly together as she shifted them to and fro, but Bridget didn’t hear any of it. Her gaze was trained on one that was all the way in the back and a strange tugging sensation in her chest drew her closer, like there were marionette strings attached to her heart and she was being pulled by an unseen force. The staff’s handle was made of wood lighter in color than the ones she remembered seeing Vazrah and Solas wielding in the Hinterlands. Where one’s hands would be gripping it, there was a couple strips of leather wrapped around the hilt. A string was tied to one of the leather strips and dangling from it was a strangely radiant triangular object three times the size of her thumbnail. It reminded her of snakeskin, and whenever the light from the fire hit it, it went to indigo to violet and every other color in between. At the top was a mess of blocky iron ore that looked like it had been haphazardly attached without a care in the world. 

Bridget reached out a hand and delicately rested her palm against the smooth surface of the staff’s wooden handle. She smelled ozone immediately. She heard thunder rumbling like the roar of some great beast and saw lightning bursting into blue-white jagged bolts in the corner of her eye. She felt wind thrashing wildly against her cheeks.

“This one.” 

“—and this staff I looted off of the body of a Vint slaver that Shokrakar and I surprised with a knife in the back at a fancy party we infiltrated a couple years ago—wait, _what_?” Vazrah jerked her head up to see Bridget cradling the staff in her hands as if it were the most precious and valuable thing in the world. She raised an eyebrow, eyes darting from the staff to Bridget’s nearly desperate expression and then back to the staff. “You sure about that one?”

“Yup. Completely.” She nodded enthusiastically.

“Huh. You’re just full of surprises.” Vazrah tapped the ore cluster with the tip of her fingernail and it made a low hum that reverberated quietly. “I made this staff when I was just a little kid. Hence the overall shoddy quality. That’s a high dragon scale my parents found not too long after they left Seheron, and the Qun. It was a good luck charm when I was young.” She smiled, face softening as her eyes gained a faraway glaze to them. “It’s a mess and not very powerful, but if you really want it, you can have it. I haven’t used it for years. Besides, I think fits you better.”

Bridget threw herself at Vazrah, forgetting about the fact that Hope was hiding in the cloak. She hugged the qunari tightly and nearly got a mouthful of hair from her braid when she shifted so that her face wasn’t shoved up against her chest. “Thank you so much, Vazrah,” she whispered sincerely, ignoring Hope’s indignant wiggling as the dragon attempted to not get squished by two pairs of fairly ample bosoms. “For the staff, for being so kind to me, and for these absolutely bitchin’ clothes.”

“Anytime, Princess.” Vazrah chuckled at Bridget’s miffed groan, hugging her back just as affectionately. She still smelled amazing and if they remained in that position any longer, Bridget could probably get high off of it if she wanted to. “Oh, yes, Varric told me of your nickname. It’s cute. Like the girl who holds the honor of such a lofty title.” She winked coyly. 

“Next time you speak with him, call him Teapot,” Bridget ordered brusquely, forcing herself to untangle from Vazrah’s curvaceous form. 

“Ooooh, that’s a good one! What would you nickname me?” Vazrah asked eagerly, practically bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet in excitement.

Bridget answered without hesitation in a completely deadpan tone. “Big Sexy.”

“...and Blackwall?”

“Sad Beardman.”

“My dear, sweet little mageling...I don’t think nicknames are your forte,” Vazrah informed her with utter sincerity, shaking her head as if it was the most unfortunate thing in the world. “Though I do appreciate your attempt for me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should probably return to the war room. I’m sure in my minor absence that there have been a dozen new catastrophes that they need the Herald of Andraste to smooth over.” She heaved a forlorn sigh as she shuffled towards the door, dragging her feet with obvious reluctance.

“I’m gonna go show Blackwall my new staff. Have fun seducing Josephine!” Bridget grinned and bounded out of the door, her entire body feeling refreshed with a fervent energy that welled up from somewhere deep inside her. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she sprinted past buildings and people, cold mountain air slapping her in the face as she ran out towards the open fields and stables. 

Upon throwing open the door of the building next to the forge area, her instincts were affirmed to be correct. Blackwall was sitting at the table once again with a significantly smaller tower of papers compared to the one he’d been wrestling with the previous day. His face was slightly pale with weary exhaustion. He didn’t even notice her come in; his focus was trained entirely on whatever document he was reading with furrowed brows, tapping the end of the quill impatiently on the table. 

Hope crawled out from her hiding place in the cloak and slithered up onto Bridget’s shoulder, shuffling her wings out slightly to let them stretch. Bridget scooted over to Blackwall’s side, doing her best not to read over his shoulder—just in case it was confidential Grey Warden information or something.

“Good morning, Blackwall! Well, afternoon, since I slept like a dead person. Vazrah gave me a staff!”

Blackwall jerked, nearly dropping the quill in surprise when said staff was suddenly shoved in front of his face. “Maker’s tears, I didn’t hear you come in,” he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Sorry, I should have knocked but I was too excited,” she admitted bashfully. “Am I interrupting anything important?”

“Ah, this? Ambassador Montilyet and Sister Leliana asked me to go through old Warden documents the Inquisition has obtained. I’ve been sorting through them and picking out treaties and the like that could be useful.” He set the quill down and gave her his full attention, eyeing the staff with an impressed albeit wary gaze. “Lady Adaar gave it to you?”

“Hell yeah! I, uh...told her that I was new to the magic thing, and she said I could have it. She even offered to help me practice whenever she has free time!” She withdrew the staff from being so close to Blackwall’s face and cleared her throat awkwardly, looking down at her feet and trying to ignore how sweaty her palms were getting all of a sudden. “I was going to find somewhere safe to practice, actually, and I wanted to know if...you, uh...wanted to come watch?”

She hated the way her voice rose a couple of hopeful octaves on the last couple of words. 

_Please say yes. Please._

“Well…” Blackwall scratched his beard thoughtfully, glancing at the mountains of papers and documents. His face morphed into a momentary mask of bitter irritation combined with fatigue, and he suddenly pushed himself away from the table and stood up. “It would be a welcome distraction. I’ve been staring at these documents for far too long. My old eyes could use a reprieve.”

_Oh thank god._

“Cool beans!” Bridget practically beamed at him and she felt her cheeks flush in elation. “I was thinking of going near that frozen lake we passed on the way in. I don’t think anyone else goes out there and usually stay around the blacksmith for training.”

He gave an affirmative nod and Bridget probably could have sprinted all the way there on a single breathe just from the pure delight his attention gave her. But, she remained at Blackwall’s side as the two made their way past the sea of tents and Inquisition soldiers and scouts, all of them far too preoccupied to notice the squirrel-sized white dragon curled atop her head like an exotic hat. 

Excitement crackled within her soul when they made it to the edge of the frozen lake. Or maybe it was the storm itself, realizing it was about to be called upon, making itself known. 

“Forgive me for asking, but...have you actually used magic since…” Blackwall trailed off, obviously still a little uncomfortable with actually saying out loud that Bridget was a formerly non-magical intruder not from Thedas. She didn’t mind. As long as he was still her friend—

 _Wait, what even are we? Can I really say that we’re friends? Sure, we lived in a cabin in the woods alone for a couple of weeks and he never once tried to slit my throat in my sleep, but...what are we?_

He’d been kind and helpful, yes, but maybe it was just the chivalry talking. 

Bridget didn’t want to think about it just yet. It hurt too much, and it made her feel like a greedy bitch because of how desperately she wanted to please him just so he would continue to treat her amiably.

She realized she’d taken too long to respond to his question and shook her head to dispel as many negative thoughts as she could. A gentle touch in her mind from Hope let her know that the dragon had heard the panicked jumble, and no doubt there was going to be a discussion about it later. “I did once, right before the Breach happened. You were at the Crossroads. I didn’t want to accidentally hurt you, so I waited until you left,” she admitted quietly, shuffling her feet around in the snow and ice. 

Blackwall blinked rapidly in surprise, tilting his head somewhat as he stared at her. Her heart thudded dangerously under his intense gaze; with his dark eyes and the swirling clouds within them, it was almost like being scrutinized by a storm.

A handsome and beardy storm.

“I appreciate that more than I can say, Bridget, but I never meant to hold you back from your magic,” Blackwall said in that gruff yet gentle voice he had perfected. The sound of her name coming out of his mouth made butterflies burst in her stomach and she discreetly crossed her legs in hopes of dispelling the squirming sensations causing a frenzy within her. “I’m no templar, but I can hold my own against magic. I don’t imagine you would ever do something to purposefully harm anyone, much less myself. Perhaps I have been...a little distant regarding the magic you have just discovered, and I apologize for it. I admire the mages and their fight for freedom; it’s damn time they earned some respect. You’re in an unfamiliar world and it was unfair of me to be standoffish.”

His gaze and expression were so sincere and full of a regret that Bridget suspected ran far deeper than her status as a baby mage that for a moment, she desired nothing more than to put her arms around him and beg him to tell her what happened to him in the past.

But it wouldn’t be right, and so all she did was smile a soft and small smile, reaching up and giving his shoulder a warm hearted pat.

“You were the first person I met here, Blackwall. You could have thrown me out but instead you gave me a warm bed and a kind smile and did your best to help me understand Thedas and everything in it. You’re a good man.”

“Not as good of a man as you think.” His face darkened and his brows furrowed as an intense look flashed across his face. Bridget knew that look. It was the same look she’d given to herself in the mirror the morning just before the jump—an expression of intense loathing and self-hatred. A longing to do something stupid and desperate.

Whatever shadows he was nursing within him, it didn’t matter. They were far too alike (at least, that was what she was going to tell herself) even though she still didn’t know how he would react to the truth. 

_No matter what you’ve done, I’ll still care for you._ Bridget hoped she was conveying her inner thoughts as she held his stormy eyes with a steady and unflinching gaze. _Please...do the same for me._

It was selfish and cruel, but Bridget had never been that great of a person in the first place.

“I still think you’re to be admired,” she finally said after a long moment of uncomfortable silence. “So thank you, Blackwall. I might not be very good at pretty much anything, but when I get this magic stuff down, you can bet your ass that I’ll have your back. And I won’t accidentally electrocute you, I swear.”

The corners of his mouth curled into a small and (what Bridget interpreted it as) fond smile. The somber pressure that had been surrounding him vanished like a stormcloud on a sunny day. “Then I suppose you’d better start practicing. I imagine you’ll be a force to be reckoned with in no time.”

His praise was almost enough to give her wings. Almost.

With a breathless laugh and the butterflies in her stomach at last calming down, Bridget turned her attention to the sky and gripped the staff tightly in her hands. Hope hopped off of her head and sailed onto Blackwall’s shoulder who, surprisingly, chucked her under her scaly chin and allowed her to settle into a comfortable position. Bridget called out to the storm with her whole heart and soul, closing her eyes as she felt the magic slowly begin to trickle into her very being. It crackled around her as the smell of ozone and rain became pungent in the air. Her fingers tingled where they gripped the staff and somehow, some way, she could taste lightning on her tongue. Wind rose at her feet and snaked around each of her limbs, tousling the stray strands of hair from her braid. She could hear rumbling from above her head, like the sound of a thousand horses galloping across the sky.

She raised her arms high and momentarily wondered if she looked like Gandalf and hoped that there would be a chance to get badass glowing eyes and float like some eldritch god as she burned an army of enemies with a plethora of lightning bolts.

Bridget called the storm for the second time since being in Thedas, and the storm answered like a puppy eager to please its master.

\---

A week passed in Haven. Bridget spent the majority of her time practicing with the staff (which she had named Mjölnir, even though no one would understand the joke) and learning how to harness the magic her crossing into Thedas had granted her. Vazrah joined her whenever she had a bit of spare time, going so far as to attempt to teach Bridget how to harness the inferno along with the storm. But, strangely, none of the fire magic seemed to want to listen. It seemed that she was in a monogamous relationship with thunder and lightning and nothing else was allowed.

She met many others in the Inquisition. Vivienne was a mage from the imperial court of Orlais and a total bitch who snubbed Bridget and treated her like nothing more than a speck of dirt, especially when she learned that Bridget had never trained in a circle and was basically an apostate (it was best if that was the story going around, because it was easier to believe than the truth). But Bridget didn’t really mind, because Vivienne knew her shit and didn’t radiate malice the way Cullen did or a eeriness the way Solas did. Sera was an elf archer who really didn’t give a fuck about what anyone else thought of her and spat upon old elven traditions, which was a bit of a shock at first for the history-loving Bridget, but all in all Sera wasn’t a bad sort and there was clearly some kind of unresolved trauma there. She cursed just as colorfully as Bridget, so that was a plus, and was actually pretty fun to be around. Iron Bull was a qunari mercenary like Vazrah, but apparently was some kind of spy that everyone was okay with because he had sworn he would only share what his contacts in Seheron wanted to hear. He was also very big. And attractive. And intimidating. And really enjoyed hitting things. 

Blackwall’s time was divided between helping Josephine and Leliana with old Warden documents and assisting Cullen with helping new recruits learn which end of the sword to grip. They hadn’t spent much time together since the day Bridget gotten her staff, but an unspoken understanding of some sort had settled between them. She still didn’t know what to call them—friends? Acquaintances? 

It didn’t help that her heart was easily confused and wanted to hold onto every kind action towards her and claim it as a sign of something...more. It was different with Vazrah since they’d established themselves as essentially flirting buddies. 

Her brain was working itself into a frenzy as she sat in the pub in Haven, devouring whatever barley and beef stew they were serving and chugging down copious amounts of apple cider. Hope was snugly hidden in her usual spot under the cloak and Mjölnir was strapped to her back. The loud din of the pub was giving her a slight headache but it was the only place to get decent food so it was a sacrifice she had to make. 

Plus, Varric was usually hanging around scribbling down various bits and pieces of plot for possible books, and it was fun to join in on the brainstorming. He refused to give her a copy of his smut novel and claimed it was due to it being the worst piece of shit he had ever written and it wasn’t worth reading. If only he knew of the copious amounts of smutty writing on the internet that she had partaken in herself when she was younger. The dwarf would be flabbergasted. Not she was going to admit it anytime soon.

As Bridget was contemplating all the stories that had been updated since she’d been gone and lamented on being unable to read them, a tap on her shoulder jolted her out of her smutty reveries. 

Her head spun around to meet the eager eyes of Vazrah, who wasn’t wearing her usual civvies and instead was dressed in light mage armor and strange, colorful war paint splashed across her face. She looked hot. Well, hotter than usual. “We’re going to Redcliffe to meet the rebel mages and see if they’ll help us close the Breach. Would you care to join us? I know it’s short notice, so it’s okay if you say no.”

“Uhhhhh. Who else is coming?” Bridget asked through a mouthful of bread, chewing thoughtfully. If Solas or Cullen were going to be there, then hell fuckin’ no.

“Myself, of course. Varric. Blackwall. And we’ll be meeting another mage who has sent us messages regarding the situation in Redcliffe; she wants to help the Inquisition. We got another letter from her this morning, and it seems like it’s time for us to intervene. The situation in Redcliffe has grown somewhat dire.”

As soon as Vazrah said Blackwall’s name, Bridget was and shoving the last bits of stew into her mouth and practically leaping out of the chair. “Fuck yeah I’m in! But uh...are you sure? I’m still not the best with magic, after all.”

“You’re a natural, despite being so new to it. And you’ll have me to back you up if a spell goes wrong.” Vazrah grabbed her by the cheeks and gave them a firm squeeze, grinning wildly. “Have some confidence in yourself!”

“Well...when you put it that way…”

And so only a couple of hours later Bridget found herself on the back of Pookie, fitted with a new set of light armor under her clothes. Vazrah, Varric, and Blackwall all rode horses of their respective choosing, also equipped with armor and weapons. She hadn’t seen Blackwall in his full armor in awhile. He looked exactly like what a knight from a fairy tale would, despite his armor primarily being black rather than white. Not for the first time since meeting him, she wondered what his arms and chest looked like underneath all that padding and chainmail. 

Cullen and Cassandra had been against meeting with the rebel mages, instead (predictably) wanting to contact the templars still remaining in Ferelden. Josephine and Leliana were of the opposite opinion, believing in the cause of the rebellion and wanting to give the rebels a chance to prove themselves. Vazrah had been the one to make the ultimate decision. Though she respected Cassandra and, unfortunately, Cullen as well, Bridget suspected the qunari’s heart bled for the plight of the mages and not just because she was a mage herself.

She felt a swell of pride for her new friend. Despite her former life as a mercenary, the pressure of being the Herald, and all of the trappings that came with it, Vazrah was an honest person who knew that the Inquisition could help the mages just as much as the mages could help them.

For simplicity’s sake and in order to conserve power in case it was needed, Hope returned to the Fade but the connection Bridget had with her remained. The journey to Redcliffe was filled with discussions of plans and plans and more plans. Bridget learned a bit more about the war and more general history of the world she now called home. At one point she realized that neither Varric nor Vazrah ever asked her where she was originally from, though she imagined they must be insanely curious. Blackwall had briefly assisted her in a somewhat believable origin story after he watched her train with the staff that first day; she was an orphan from Ostwick, a city state in the Free Marches that primarily relied on trade since it was right up against the Waking Sea. When her magic manifested only a couple of months ago, she escaped to Ferelden in hopes of finding someone to help her learn how to control it. As far as cover ups went, it wasn’t the worst, and it would hopefully explain why there were no records of her existence previous to joining the Inquisition.

Bridget attempted to casually pepper in memes from her old life here and there but unfortunately, her efforts fell on deaf ears due to no one (except Hope because Bridget shared some of her memories with the dragon) understanding what the hell she was going on about. It was slightly disheartening because the image of Varric running out of bolts for his crossbow and instead throwing the contraption at an enemy while valiantly shouting “This bitch empty, yeet!” was an absolutely fantastic one that would most likely never come to fruition.

On the third day the four passed the road that led to the old cabin and lake where she had stumbled headfirst into Thedas. They entered the Crossroads, which was packed with Inquisition soldiers doing their best to help the refugees. Bridget hadn’t seen it when it was being besieged by bandits and rebel mages and astray templars, but she had heard of how bad the situation was. Things looked like they were returning to normal, slowly but surely.

After a quick rest to resupply and allow the mounts some time to catch their breath, the group was back on the road and only a couple hours later they were before the gates of Redcliffe. Bridget got to see her first Rift up close and personal.

“I want all eyes on that damn thing!” A female soldier was shouting as the group trotted up the road on their mounts. “I would turn back, travelers; Redcliffe is being blocked by one of those bloody demon holes,” she spat as she rushed past them, heading towards a building a few feet away.

Redcliffe was just beyond the large stone wall. Through the gapes in the iron gate, Bridget could see the outlines of the village and a broken down windmill. In the middle of the path was an ugly green scar just floating in mid air; energy crackled dangerously from the glowing abomination and her stomach felt queasy the longer she looked at it. It was nothing like the sensations she had felt when the Breach first appeared, but it still was enough to make her shuffle behind Vazrah and glare at the putrid thing.

“Ready for your first taste of demon ass-kicking, Princess?” Varric chuckled gravely as he pulled out his crossbow, loading it with bolts. 

Bridget didn’t have time to answer because that’s when all hell broke loose.

The Rift exploded and snarls that could only come from nightmares filled Bridget’s ears. Two ten-foot sickly green things with giant claws and glowing yellow eyes erupted from a weird hole in the ground. Four floating wisp-like beings of a similar color materialized out of thin air, moaning ghoulishly like they were from some B-rate horror movie that went straight to DVD. 

With a valiant cry, Blackwall drew his sword and charged at the nearest demon, slashing into it while simultaneously parrying blows from its deadly claws with his shield. Varric nimbly scrambled up onto a boulder and began shooting at the other monster’s head, knocking it back with every bolt. The spirit things didn’t seem to care about the dwarf or the warrior at all and instead floated towards the two mages with a haunting pace.

“Over here!” Vazrah called and grabbed Bridget’s hand, pulling her to a copse of trees where they still had a decent vantage point of the Rift. 

It hit Bridget that this was her first real fight and she felt like she was going to throw up for a solid three seconds.

Vazrah brandished her staff and held the end towards the four wisps. The air became swelteringly hot as the crystal on the end of her staff glowed with a faint orange light, and with a shout she swiped the staff at the ground. A wall of red fire burst into existence and surrounded the wisps in a cage of flames, the light reflecting creepily in their soulless holes for eyes. They shrieked as cinders flew out at their translucent forms, leaving charred patches wherever they were hit. 

Bridget’s mouth was dry as she watched the spectacle from her spot a few paces behind Vazrah. It wasn’t from the sudden rise in temperature, either.

She raised her own staff, feet planted firmly on the ground but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She heard a surprised grunt of pain and turned her head to see Blackwall being swatted aside and thrown to the ground by the demon he had been fighting with. It let out a horrific squeal of delight and time seemed to slow down as it lunged towards him, claws extended for the kill, and the one Varric had been fighting saw its chance and joined its brethren.

No, it didn’t _seem_ to slow down.

It _did_ slow down for everything but the demons and herself. Blackwall, Varric, and Vazrah were nearly frozen in place, moving like they were in a dramatic slow motion scene of an action movie.

But Bridget could still move, and she rushed like a charging bull to where Blackwall lay on the ground, standing between him and the demons with her arms spread out, accidentally dropping the staff in her haste.

“Don’t you _fucking_ touch him,” she snarled in a feral, possessive voice that came from somewhere deep; somewhere she didn’t know existed. Electricity crackled and popped in her bare hands as the storm hurried to her call, kissing her fingertips like a frenzied worshipper at the feet of their god. She brought her hands together in a clapping motion and the moment her palms met, thunder crashed through the air and a white-hot bolt of indigo lightning streaked down from the sky and embraced the two demons. They shrieked as they were encased in the electricity, an impossibly inhuman noise that she would hear until the day she died. Their bodies popped and sizzled and then fell apart into nothing but sickly green dust; it was like watching ants being burned to ashes by a magnifying glass. With a flick of her wrist, the lightning shot out towards the wisps that Vazrah had caged and repeated the process, wrapping them in deadly static. They didn’t even have time to scream before their chiffon-like forms were torn apart as easy as paper.

The moment the demons were gone, time resumed.

Bridget’s knees buckled and she pitched forward on her knees, gasping and panting for air. The storm bade her farewell with a whisper from the wind as it brushed against her cheek, but her hands still tingled as if she was still holding the electricity. Vazrah wasted no time in running towards the Rift, held out the hand that glowed the same color, and the ugly green scar was gone in an instant.

“Maferath’s balls, what just happened?” Varric was the first to speak from his position on the boulder, voice heavy with shock and bewilderment.

“Time...slowed down,” Blackwall whispered breathlessly in awe. He remained sprawled out on the ground next to Bridget, staring at her with an unreadable expression.

“We don’t know what these Rifts can do. Maybe our contact in Redcliffe will have an idea.” Vazrah held out her hand to Bridget and she took it, allowing the qunari to hoist her to her feet. “Such as why it affected all of us except Bridget.”

_It’s probably because I’m not from here so the all of the laws of physics in your magical world might not apply to me._

But she wasn’t about to say that out loud. She couldn’t quite talk yet, for one, because she was too busy trying to calm down and steady her rapidly beating heart as the adrenaline rush refused to go away.

“What...did you see?” she managed to mumble, tasting copper on her tongue despite not having bitten the inside of her mouth at all.

“Hero was on the ground and suddenly you were there blasting demons with the biggest fucking lightning bolt I’ve ever seen,” Varric narrated colorfully, hopping to the ground at the same time that Blackwall was forcing himself to his feet. 

Vazrah nodded her affirmation. Blackwall still just stared at Bridget in bewildered silence and fear surged through her, replacing the adrenaline with a dawning horror that he (and everyone else) had most likely heard what she had say. Or, rather, how she had said it.

“Are you okay?” she asked him softly, focusing on the space of air right next to him rather than looking directly at his face.

That seemed to snap him out of whatever moment he was having and Blackwall cleared his throat loudly, rubbing his beard absentmindedly. “I...yes. I let my guard down. Won’t happen again next time I face those Fade bastards.” The skin not covered by his beard was flushed and he cleared his throat again, this time his voice low enough so only Bridget could hear. “...thank you.”

His hand casually brushed against hers and he squeezed her wrist in acknowledgement. Bridget’s heart forgot how to function and she almost let out a strangled whimper but managed to control herself, instead just giving him a nod and a strained smile.

_I told you I would have your back, Blackwall. I meant it. I’m not going to let anything happen to you as long as I’m channeling my inner Thor._

She felt Hope and the storm alike congratulate her within the depths of her mind.

Shortly after they were being escorted through the Redcliffe gates by a group of thankful soldiers. An Inquisition scout who had been stationed in the village informed them of a Tevinter magister announcing his control over the rebel mages, and Vazrah growled in irritation. The “contact” to the Inquisition was actually leader of the mage rebellion, Grand Enchanter Fiona, who had suddenly claimed to have no idea of the Inquisition’s involvement. The whole atmosphere felt tense and could have been cut with a knife if you really tried; people whispered to one another as the group passed them by, and many rushed into their homes when they spotted the staffs Bridget and Vazrah were carrying. Gulls cawed from their perches on ships near the docks and Lake Calenhad’s wave lapped gently against them, but the peaceful ambience did not match the general mood of the village itself.

“Something’s not right,” Varric muttered as he eyed a group of women whose eyes were wide as they watched them. 

“Thanks for pointing out the obvious, Teapot. I couldn’t tell myself.” Vazrah rolled her eyes.

Blackwall let out a snort of laughter and Varric’s nostrils flared as he rounded on Bridget, faking wounded expression and clutching his chest dramatically. “You told her? Princess, I thought you liked me better than that!”

“I like you plenty, Varric. I just also like watching you squirm.” Bridget grinned deviously and waggled her eyebrows, patting him on the back. He just waved her hands away and sighed like he had the weight of the world resting on his short and stout shoulders.

Maybe she was imagining things, but Bridget could swear she saw Blackwall scowl ever so slightly.

In the distance and up a slope was a griffon statue that was erected in front of what looked like a pub of sorts. Vazrah gestured for everyone to follow her, doing her damnedest to ignore the whispers and stares from every direction. Etched into the base of the statue was an epithet that had seen better days, judging by how worn the words were: “In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice.” It was framed by the same griffon symbol Bridget had seen stamped onto the multitudes of documents Blackwall had been put in charge of. She watched him pause momentarily in front of it, placing his gloved hand over the words and standing silent for a few seconds before uttering a quiet thank you.

It was a memorial to Grey Wardens. Her heart surged for him; if her memory served correctly from the history she had memorized, Redcliffe had been overrun by undead and darkspawn alike. It wasn’t far off to guess that Blackwall had lost companions during those bloody days.

She wanted to put a comforting hand on his shoulder but decided against it, instead following Vazrah and Varric who were making their way to the door to the pub. A wooden sign hanging from a pole named it The Gull and Lantern. Vazrah swung open the door and the effect was immediate; the dull roar of talking and silverware clashing and beer mugs being filled all but stopped as every patron turned to look at the Herald of Andraste. It smelled amazing, like pot roast and mashed potatoes and freshly baked bread. Bridget’s mouth began to water and she eyed a table that was close enough for her to sneak a piece off of an unattended plate, but considering just how many people were around, decided it to leave things be. Much to the dismay of her stomach.

“I’m looking to speak with Grand Enchanter Fiona. Might she be here?” Vazrah’s tone was pleasant enough, but there was no denying the annoyance that carefully laced her every word.

“I am she.” An elf with an Orlesian accent stepped forward. She had short hair and there was a tiredness carved into her lined face, with dark bags under her eyes. When she noticed the Inquisition symbol on Vazrah’s armor, she did a double take. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of the Inquisition?” she asked cautiously.

“You _asked_ me to come,” Vazrah stated, crossing her arms and shifting so that she was at her full height, towering over the poor woman. “We’ve been corresponding for weeks trying to find a way to close the Breach. Or are you going to deny it and say I made it all up?”

“I...truly have no idea what you are referring to,” Fiona answered in bewilderment, eyes blinking rapidly as if she were trying to process it. “While I would love to join forces with the Inquisition, I am afraid that as one indentured to a magister I no longer have the authority to make the decision.”

“Then who does?”

“I believe that would be me.” The doors swung open and for a second time, the patrons in the pub all stared down the newcomers. It was a man a little older than Blackwall wearing a red cape with a really weird hood flanked by a couple of other similarly dressed people. He had “slimy bastard” written across his leering face as he sauntered in, fingers tapping impatiently on the giant book strapped to his waist. “Inquisition, yes? I’ve heard news of your little...experiment to attempt to seal the Breach with mages. Perhaps we can help each other, yes?” He gave an ostentatious bow and the smirk he wore made warning bells go off in Bridget’s head. He was bad news, obviously. Really bad. “Magister Gereon Alexius, at your service.”

“Magister? You’re a long way from home.” Vazrah followed his lead, words laced with sickening sweet poison as she gave a sarcastic bow herself. “What’s a Tevinter Magister doing this down south, claiming authority over the mage rebellion?”

“I merely thought they would need some guidance. They could do so much more with the resources I have at my disposal.” Alexius’ gaze was piercing as his eyes raked over first Vazrah, and then Bridget, focusing on the staffs they wielded. Bridget unconsciously shifted closer to Blackwall, clenching her fists behind her and ignoring all urges to run the hell away. He looked at the two women like they were cattle; like he was observing their pros and cons in a mere matter of seconds, and she didn’t like it one bit.

“It’s a tremendous task, closing the Breach. The Inquisition isn’t thinking small here. We’d need the best of your mages,” Vazrah probed, not backing down. It was like watching a wolf and a coyote circling one another, hackles raised and ready to strike at any moment.

Before Alexius could answer back, however, a young man appeared out of nowhere and stumbled into Vazrah, his face pale and sweaty. Bridget saw him shoved something into her hand as she helped him get steady on her feet.

“Felix!” Alexius rushed forward and snatched the young man out of Vazrah’s grasp, looking panicked. “Forgive me; I must attend to my son immediately. We may discuss the matter further at Redcliffe Castle if you so wish it, Herald.” 

Just like that, he was gone, and the entire room almost breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Vazrah pulled out the piece of parchment that had been thrust into her hand. “‘Come to the chantry. You’re in danger,’” she read slowly, looking pensive.

“Could be a trap,” Varric advised quietly, lips drawn in a tight line.

“But if it is, we could take them all out in one fell swoop,” Blackwall countered. Bridget noticed that he was somehow even closer to her than before, even despite when she had shuffled more towards him. She had to force down a silly grin and instead told herself it was just a coincidence.

“It’s the only lead we have so we might as well act on it. Come on.” Vazrah bade farewell to a guilty-looking Fiona and the group exited the building. Just a few feet away and up a hill, the chantry loomed over the village like some venerable watchman. It was undeniably in much better shape than the one at Haven and actually looked like it was being taken care of. And upon opening the doors, it actually felt much more peaceful than Haven’s.

Save for the Rift in the middle of the room and the man fighting off the demons that were pouring out of it.

“Finally! I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up,” the man called as he parried a blow from a demon with the handle of a staff. Crimson sparks flew out of the end and turned into a fireball that consumed the creature and sent an overpowering heatwave through the whole building that blustered like a scorching desert wind. “Now help me with this, would you?”

With three mages, a sharpshooting dwarf, and a bear of a man who knew how to work a sword it didn’t take too long. 

Bridget actually used Mjölnir instead of her bare hands, channeling the storm through the staff and blasting the demons with orbs of lightning and creating chains of electricity that shackled their limbs in place. Whenever she slammed the end of the staff onto the ground, a shockwave ripples across the floor and lightning emerged from the floorboards, cutting into the demons’ bodies with surgical precision. She couldn’t fight the grin on her face as she dispatched one after another, her skin tingling with energy and her fingers itching for more. It was nothing like the fight outside of Redcliffe. It was a thrill. She felt like she’d been born for it—like the storm had always been inside of her, and all it needed was a little interdimensional travel for it to make itself known. 

There was a twinge of disappointment when the last demon evaporated and was sucked back into the Rift with a pitiful squeal and Vazrah sealed it up with her glowing hand with ease. She wanted more. For the briefest of moments, the image of two young women the same age as her appeared in her mind, only to be obliterated by a lightning bolt.

Bridget pushed the image away, ignoring the satisfaction it brought, and turned her attention to the unknown mage.

He wore clothes of the finest silks and his posture was incredibly dignified and aristocratic. He had pale green eyes that shone with a keen intelligence and had smooth, dark brown skin only a couple shades lighter than his hair, which was arranged elegantly in an undercut. Completing the look was a mustache straight from some film noir detective, and while he was attractive, he still had nothing on the down-to-earth charms of Blackwall. 

_I’ve got it bad, don’t I?_

“How does that even work, exactly?” The man questioned Vazrah with genuine interest, though his tone was slightly aloof. He spoke like the word “posh” personified; kind of like Vivienne, but in a better way. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wave your hand and poof! No more demons!”

“Did you send the letter?” Vazrah immediately went into business mode, holding out the scrap of parchment towards the mage. He peered at it briefly and nodded, flashing everyone an alluring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Indeed I did. Dorian of house Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.” He introduced himself with a flourish of his hand. Bridget liked him immediately. There was no malice emanating off of him, and while his personality seemed a bit floozy and over the top, Dorian didn’t seem like a bad sort. 

“Magister Alexius was once my mentor,” he continued, tone turning serious and face growing grave. “so my assistance will be valuable, as I’m sure you can imagine. I heard rumors of him plotting to claim allegiance from the mage rebellion. They only got worse when the Inquisition’s interest was mentioned. I came to the south as quickly as I could, to keep an eye on things and try to prevent a complete disaster. But then everything went to shit, as you have come to find out yourself.”

“It’s like he…knew to get here before us,” Vazrah said slowly, grinding her teeth. “Almost as if…”

“Almost as if by magic, yes?” Dorian finished. “Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Varric muttered, blowing air through his teeth as he rubbed the back of his head. “Shit just keeps getting weirder and weirder.”

“Time magic? Impossible,” Blackwall scoffed. Bridget gave him a hard look and he shrugged, looking slightly chagrined. “You don’t have to be a mage to know that toying with time is an absurdly stupid thing to do.”

“Your big friend is correct. But that doesn’t change the fact that Alexius has perfected this time magic, and used it to take the mages out from under the Inquisition’s feet.” Dorian gestured to Vazrah’s hand, which had stopped glowing so brightly since the closing of the Rift. “The Rift you encountered outside of Redcliffe...you noticed, I’m sure, how time seemed to twist around it and slowed things down. That was Alexius’ doing. If he isn’t stopped, the phenomena will undoubtedly spread.”

“Then we kick his ass!” Bridget declared, still somewhat high off the adrenaline rush. A small spark of static curled around her fingers and stubbornly refused to leave, even when she willed it away. Instead, it skulked off onto the wood of Mjölnir’s handle and disappeared.

”I agree, but it’s not going to be easy. He’s joined a cult. They call themselves the Venatori and are fixated on bringing the glory and splendor of ancient Tevinter back.” Dorian once again indicated Vazrah’s hand, going to far as to poke it gingerly as if he were afraid it was going to gain a mouth full of fangs and bite him. “They’re quite interested in your mark. If you agree to ally with him and the rebel mages, there’s no doubt he’ll simply kill you in the process. And then use your corpse for blood magic. I’m sure your horns would make a lovely wall decoration.”

“Let him try,” Vazrah snarled, but she was grinning ferally as she spoke. She looked like a cat about to pounce on a mouse, intending on tormenting it to death. “He’s at Redcliffe castle, yes? I say we go now under the pretense of accepting an alliance with him and the mages, but we take him and these Venatori out before they can suspect a thing.”

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , you waste no time, do you?” Dorian slapped her on the shoulder good naturedly, wincing a little and rubbing his hand after the fact. “Ahem. No time like the present. Especially when it could unravel at any moment. You lot go and confront Alexius; I’ll have to sneak in behind you, considering he would recognize the plot to outwit him if he saw me.”

“You sure about this, Bonfire? The Magister is up to something, that’s obvious, but do you trust the whole ‘time is getting fucked with’ story? No offense, Sparkler,” Varric added in an afterthought, directing the last sentence to Dorian.

“...Sparkler?”

“Nicknames are kinda his thing. Don’t think about it too much,” Bridget explained upon seeing Dorian’s baffled and slightly offended expression.

“I’m inclined to agree with Varric. It all just seems so...outlandish.” Blackwall’s hand gripped the pommel of his sword as he spoke, but it wasn’t a threatening gesture. Rather it was more like an unconscious habit born from years of walking around armed.

“Alexius wanted me here so why make him wait? He’s done all this for me and here I didn’t get Alexius anything.” Vazrah tutted her tongue sadly, shaking her head as if it were the most tragic news in the world.

“Send him a fruit basket. Everyone loves those,” Dorian joked back, and the two shared a delighted grin.

Two hours later, the group (minus one Tevinter) showed up at the castle door with Bridget holding a hastily constructed fruit basket that most definitely contained more rotten apples compared to everything else. 

It was pretty much what Bridget expected for her first look at a medieval fantasy castle. Cold, damp, the pungent aroma of mold and feet wafting up from threadbare rugs that barely kept the chill from the floor away...the lack of light that make her feel like she was in an underground bar...various mildewed tapestries hanging on the stone walls...yep. It was exactly as she had pictured it. She liked the stables in Haven much better. At least they smelled cleaner.

“The invitation was for Mistress Adaar only. The rest of you will have to wait here,” a runner informed them after taking the basket from Bridget and hastily handing it off to one of the guards.

“They’re negotiators,” Vazrah pressed, wearing her most diplomatic and winsome qunari smile. It kind of make her look like she was ready to murder everyone in sight which, truthfully, was the case. “They go where I go.”

The man looked at Vazrah, to Bridget, to Blackwall, to Varric, and back to Vazrah. One could clearly see the thought of “I don’t get paid enough for this shit” in his eyes as he took a deep breath and nodded, gesturing for everyone to follow him. He took them to a lavishly decorated hall that smelled sooty from all the braziers hanging from the ceiling. An extravagant red carpet led to a small set of stone stairs where a throne of sorts was perched at the top. In it sat Gereon Alexius, looking quite pleased with himself. Next to him was his son, Felix, whom Dorian had explained was concerned for his father and wanted nothing more to do with the Venatori. Said cult members were stationed around Alexius in a protective circle of sorts, their tomes and staffs clearly visible as they stared down the Inquisition members through their creepy masks and hoods. 

“Ah, Mistress Adaar! Welcome. I apologize for my abrupt departure earlier; my son takes priority above all else, you see.” Despite how much of a dirty rat he was, it was clear that Alexius genuinely cared for Felix, judging by the authentic smile he gave the young man.

“I understand the desire to protect your love ones,” Vazrah answered swiftly. “Thank you for allowing us the chance to discuss an alliance.”

“Of course! I think you’ll find my terms fair and our partnership quite beneficial,” Alexius cooed sleazily, unable to keep a smirk off of his oily face. He snapped his fingers and a Venatori agent appeared at his side, handing him a stack of papers and a quill pen. He gestured for Vazrah to approach and she did so with her head held up high, playing the part of the blessed Herald of Andraste. “Simply sign these and the southern mages are in your capable hands. After, we can discuss—”

“Actually, I’d like to talk to you about your time magic,” Vazrah interrupted, slamming her marked hand on the stack of papers and causing some to fly off onto the floor. The room became so silent you could heard a mouse breathe as the qunari and the Magister stared one another down, unblinking.

But then a bead of sweat rolled down Alexius’ nose, and he blurted out, “Now where would you hear about something as preposterous as that?” 

“She knows everything, father.” Felix spoke up softly from his father’s side, eyes full of a heavy sorrow as he placed a hand on Alexius’ arm. “This whole charade is just that.”

“Felix! How could you?” Alexius’ face darkened as he drew his face into a scowl, leaping to his feet and brushing off his son’s hand. The Venatori all stepped menacingly closer, hands going to their weapons.

“Your son is concerned for you,” Bridget spoke up and immediately regretted it when dozens of pairs of eyes were on her. The urge to learn how to shapeshift so she could become a mouse and slip between a crack in the wall was very high as she shrunk beneath multiple furious gazes, mouth going dry. 

“As am I, Alexius.”

Dorian’s voice boomed confidently as he strode across the room and right up to where Vazrah and Alexius were standing. The latter’s face was painted in a mask of rage, and his hands began to shake. Whether it was anger, or fear, or both, Bridget couldn’t tell.

“Dorian,” he spat venomously, eyes like daggers as they bore into Dorian’s steady gaze. “I should have known you had something to do with this.” 

“Please, Alexius, stop this madness. We can return to Tevinter and leave this all behind. It isn’t worth it.” Dorian’s voice was sincere as he pleaded with his former mentor. But it was all for naught, because Alexius suddenly had a strange amulet in his hands and it was glowing. A very bad, very “oh shit” kind of glow that radiated a dark and terrifying energy.

“THE ELDER ONE WILL MAKE YOU ALL PAY!”

His almost delirious screech was accompanied by the sound of a dozen mages drawing their staffs and tomes. Varric, Blackwall, and Bridget all rushed forward in an attempt to join Vazrah and Dorian. Everything happened so fast; Bridget didn’t really know what was going on. She heard Alexius yell something about an “elder one” again and the room lit up with a blinding white glow. She felt a strong pair of hands push her back as she squeezed her eyes shut, head suddenly pounding with the expelling of the wicked magic the amulet was pouring out. When she opened them again, Vazrah was nowhere to be found. Neither was Dorian.

Nor was Blackwall.

Bridget and Varric stared at one another. Everything was silent, save for slightly deranged laughter from Alexius. The urge to march up there and put her hands around his throat and squeeze until he told her where Blackwall and the rest went burned like hellfire underneath her skin, but she found that her feet were unable to move as she stared at the empty pocket of air where said Warden had once been.

“What the fuck—”

Varric never had time to finish his sentence. Another bout of blinding white light burst before the throne and three figures tumbled out of a rip in space similar to a Rift. Vazrah had blood and gore smeared across her face and was clearly favoring her left leg. Dorian’s impeccable hair was mussed and a deep cut still seeping blood ran across his cheek. Blackwall was covered in grime from head to toe and his helmet was no longer on his head; there was a black eye forming and he sagged with exhaustion.

He raised his weary head and his eyes met Bridget’s. Their stormy depths swirled with a myriad of unsaid things and unreadable emotions. The war hammer fell to the floor with a clamorous thud as Blackwall launched himself towards her, closing the distance between the two with the speed of a lightning strike across the night sky.

And then he was holding her tight, arms wrapped around her body and pulling her as close to his chest as possible. He smelled like sweat and blood and dirty water. His embrace was nearly enough to choke her as one hand cradled the back of her head with a tender ferocity, the other wrapping around her waist as if she was going to float away and disappear. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world. “You’re alive,” he whispered hoarsely, voice trembling like a dam threatened to overflow. Her breath hitched when his face came dangerously close to hers, beard tickling her nose. His breath fanned her face and sent warm tingles up and down her spine. “Thank the Maker. Thank Andraste. You’re _alive_.”

Bridget had no idea what was going on.

But she knew for certain that in that moment, regardless of her previous romantic experience (or rather, lack thereof) she fell hopelessly in love with Blackwall.


	6. in hushed whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for some self harm in this one. and self destructive talk.
> 
> i have played this mission so many times i can beat it in like 30 minutes lmao. it's definitely one of my favorite missions but god it's depressing.
> 
> some more canon-divergent stuff in this too and also you can tell where i got lazy and stopped wanting to explicitly detail every little thing. y'all know what's up; you've played the game. 
> 
> aaaaaaaaaand here begins the skinny love trope which is infinitely better than slowburn

When the Vint brought out the amulet, Blackwall had reacted on instinct. He was meant to be a shield for the other members of the party. So when he, Bridget, and Varric scrambled to join Vazrah and Dorian, he had used the momentum to push both Bridget and Varric backwards right as the light from whatever spell Alexius was casting burst forth into the room. The light hit him just as he shoved the dwarf and the young woman behind him. Everything became white and it felt like his body was being torn into pieces and then sewn back together again.

And then suddenly, Blackwall was somewhere else.

He was up to his ankles in foul-smelling water. The atmosphere felt heavy and oppressive, as if the very air itself wanted to choke and suffocate him. Everything was cast in a blood red glow and when Blackwall’s eyes adjusted, he saw the reason why—dozens upon dozens of red crystals protruding from the stone walls and out from beneath the water, all emanating a strange heat. The chamber was in horrific shape and looked like it had been through a war; maybe in another life it had once served as a prison of some kind judging by the rusty manacles on the walls and the warped iron bars where dark cells hid in crimson shadows.

A sharp intake of breath to his right alerted him of Vazrah; a quick glance on his left showed Dorian. They were staring ahead at two figures who had swords drawn, and they were dressed in the armor of the Venatori. 

“Blood of the Elder One! Where did they come from?!”

The Venatori charged at the three of them with fierce battle cries but it was over before it even started. Blackwall easily deflected a blow from one with his shield and swung the edge of his blade into the small slit where the helmet and the chainmail did not cover. The blade struck deep into the thin flesh of his neck. A wet gurgle rose up from the man as he plummeted face first into the briney and black water, Blackwall yanking his blade out with ease. A burst of heat and the smell of burning hair and flesh combined with an agonized scream cut short confirmed the quick demise of the other Venatori, whose blackened husk dropped like a rock into the water.

“Well. This was unexpected.” Dorian huffed as he brushed ash and soot off of his formerly spotless clothes. 

“Where are we?” Blackwall demanded angrily, wanting nothing more than to grab the preening mage and shake him wildly. But he resisted the urge and instead focused on scanning the bodies for anything useful; the Venatori he had dispatched had a set of well-worn keys attached to his belt, and it came off easily with a hard tug. 

“The spell Alexius cast...I think it moved us through time,” Vazrah murmured ominously, face drawn in a harrowed expression. 

Blackwall’s heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach. His throat constricted as he fixated the two mages with an intense stare, pocketing the keys and gripping the hilt of his sword as if he were a drowning man and it was his last life line. “How?” His voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

“We can sense it. The magic, that is.” Dorian’s cheeks were pale and his eyes darted around wildly. “But whether he moved us forward in time or back in time…” He trailed off, obviously lost in thought as he ran a hand through his impeccable hair.

“This is red lyrium.” Vazrah nudged one of the glowing red clusters with the edge of her boot experimentally, shuddering when she came into contact with it. “But I haven’t seen it in this quantity since it was discovered at the temple. This is bad. Really, really bad.”

“Then we find a way back,” Blackwall growled. If the three of them were here—whenever and wherever here was—then that left Varric and Bridget alone to deal with a room full of angry Venatori. And while the dwarf was a good shot, and Bridget was fairly proficient with her magic—

The furious expression on her face and the fierce way she had snarled at the demons before incinerating them with a lightning bolt came to his mind.

—the odds were still stacked against them. Blackwall didn’t understand magic. He understood time magic even less. So he didn’t know if time was passing normally back ‘home’ as the three of them stood there in shock while Bridget and Varric were possibly getting annihilated by Venatori. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he imagined a sword going through her chest and blood spurting across her face as she fell to the ground like a limb doll, eyes wide and unseeing.

“I most certainly agree, my large and hairy companion.” Blackwall glared when Dorian addressed him as such, but the foppish mage took no heed. “I am certain we are still in the castle. Alexius wouldn’t have been able to move us through time _and_ space.”

“We won’t figure anything out just by standing here and speculating. Let’s get moving.” 

Vazrah took the familiar tone of command that she had been using more and more lately; which made sense, considering she was almost always the one sent on behalf of the Inquisition due to her Herald status. Blackwall and Dorian fell in behind the qunari as they left the dilapidated cells behind. Entering a hall that was in just as poor condition with even more red lyrium growing out of the walls, they came to a forked path that led to a set of stairs going down and one that went up. Except, the door at the end of the stairs that led down was completely blocked by rubble and red lyrium. The trio went up the unblocked stairs and as he walked through the door, Blackwall’s leg brushed against some of the red lyrium. Even though he was wearing armor and greaves, a shock still went through his body, like he had leapt from a great height and landed wrong. Heat seared on the spot where the armor came into contact with the lyrium and his muscles throbbed. The sensations faded away as quickly as they came; he made a mental note to avoid touching the corrupted lyrium at all, even with armor on.

Some part of Blackwall shut down as they traversed the lyrium-ingested prisons. All he could think about was Bridget and every various possible situation she could be in. He lumbered along, following Vazrah and Dorian and drawing his sword when need be, but he did not speak. He was lost in his own mind, guilt weighing down his soul further and further into the abyss to join with the rest of his regret. He was vaguely aware of when they came across the Grand Enchanter chained in one of the cells with massive amounts of red lyrium growing out of her body; evidently a whole year had passed, and the Venatori were using living people like gardens to grow the red lyrium. Some ancient and powerful being only known as the Elder One had commanded Alexius to take control of the rebel mages, and the spell that caused them to be thrust forward in time had also ripped southern Thedas apart with Rifts and demons everywhere. The Inquisition never stood a chance against corrupted mages and an army of demons.

Blackwall became much more attentive when Fiona mentioned other Inquisition agents being locked up somewhere else. His mind cleared enough from the news that he was able to find his voice again, and it trembled with desperation. “Bridget. Is she here too?”

“The...young mage?” Fiona’s voice was weak and raspy and she looked like all she wanted to do was collapse against the red lyrium and close her eyes. But she gave a nod, and a tiny breeze of optimism fluttered within Blackwall. “Yes...she is here. You must...stop this from ever happening...please…”

“Don’t worry. None of this will be real. We’ll stop Alexius and his madness,” Vazrah promised, giving Fiona a conflicted look. 

“I’m sorry,” Dorian added softly, sharing in Vazrah’s troubled expression. 

Another pang of guilt welled up inside of Blackwall as he followed the mages into another maze of crumbling hallways. He’d been too busy dwelling on Bridget to even consider how this dark future affected everyone else. No—it wasn’t that he was focused entirely on Bridget but rather his own weakness. 

_How pathetic do you have to be? The world has fallen apart and all you can do is wallow in self pity? This isn’t real, you bastard. It’s real for these poor sods, but not for you. Not for Bridget and Varric back in Redcliffe Castle. Get your head out of your arse and help fix it before it’s too late._

It wasn’t until they stumbled across another set of prisons that Blackwall realized the keys in his pocket were most likely to the cell doors and he could have freed Fiona. But considering she was essentially stuck to the wall by the lyrium growing out of her, it wouldn’t have done much good. It didn’t make the remorse any less shameful. 

They found Varric in a cell by himself after the third door they walked through. He looked like shit.

His face was a colorful assortment of bruises and his clothes were torn almost beyond recognition. An ugly swollen sore on his cheek weeped pus and was clearly infected. His entire body glowed dully with the same malicious scarlet hues of the red lyrium but it was his eyes that were the worst. They were almost completely red, as if someone had poured blood right into his irises. When he spoke, his voice echoed with a strange fractured quality.

“Well, shit. You’re all alive.” He gaped at the trio with a mixture of shock and relief, gripping the bars of his cell with swollen hands. “ _How_? That spell...we all watched you die.”

“Alexius sent us forward in time. This future isn’t real,” Dorian explained as Blackwall pulled the keys out and went to work on opening the lock on the bars. The first key he tried worked like a charm, and Varric stepped out with a grateful nod. Vazrah handed him his crossbow. It had been placed on a table directly in front of the cell, as if to mock Varric with its close proximity. He cradled the contraption with a tender grasp, as if it were a newborn baby.

“I’m so sorry, Varric,” she said solemnly, clasping him on the shoulder. “I should have been here.”

“Shit, you were lucky you died early. Ever tried fighting an army of demons?” Despite how in shambles the dwarf was, he hadn’t lost his sense of humor. Blackwall admired Tethras fiercely in that moment; he didn’t know what horrors he had been put through, but it took a certain kind of person to remain standing strong after it.

His tongue acted on its own before he could stop it or before anyone else could speak.

“Where’s Bridget?”

Varric’s face immediately fell and an icy cold knife of fear stabbed through Blackwall’s heart.

_Oh, Maker...at least let her have passed without pain._

“She’s being kept in the next cellblock.” Blackwall heaved an audible sigh of relief and the freezing jabs paused in their relentless attack, if just for the moment. “She’s not doing too good, Hero,” Varric told him quietly as the group marched on ahead, making their way to the direction of the next set of prison cells. “At least, she wasn’t the last time I saw her…”

A minute later Vazrah was yanking the door open to the final section of the prison, and in the only cell that wasn’t completely overrun by rubble and red lyrium, there was Bridget.

She sat on the ground with her knees drawn up to her forehead and her arms wrapped around her legs. She shivered, even though it was more than warm in the chamber with the heat all the lyrium was giving off. Her hair was a ratty tangled mess that formed a frizzy halo around her head and cloak that Vazrah had given her was nowhere to be seen. Upon hearing the door creak open, her head shot up rapidly and Blackwall’s stomach roiled with nausea. 

Her cheeks were sunken in and the shadows beneath her eyes were darker than the night sky. Her eyes were somehow even more red than Varric’s and the hellish glow on her skin was twice as severe, making it look like her insides were on fire and the flames were burning through her flesh. When she jerked backwards as they came closer and put her arms up in a pleading motion, the nausea intensified.

Multiple deep gouges ran across her wrists. There was dried blood underneath her broken fingernails, clear as the morning sun as she cowered.

“Stay back! I won’t fall for this again! Just leave me alone, _please_!” Bridget’s voice was more broken and garbled than Varric’s, heavy with tears and terror and pain.

No one said anything. Varric merely hung his head in remorse; Vazrah and Dorian looked horrified as they remained rooted on the spot. Only Blackwall stepped forward, approaching the cell with slow and cautious movements. 

“Bridget, it’s me. Blackwall.” His voice was low and gentle as he put his hands on the bars, ignoring the discomfort of how hot they were. His heart threatened to crawl up his chest and leap out of his mouth; his frame shook with a silent rage and for the first time in his life, Blackwall wished he had been born with magic so he could have the satisfaction of utterly annihilating the bastards who made this happen. Just stabbing them through bones and meat and flesh wouldn’t be enough, not this time.

“NO! You’re not him! He’s dead, he’s fucking dead, and it’s my fault, all my fault…” Her eyes were wide with a feral panic, like a dying wild animal who’s been cornered and has nowhere to go. “You’re a demon! Just like all the other demons they’ve sent to taunt me! Just like...just like all the other demons who ripped Hope apart and ate her and then spat out her bones right in front of me…”

_Oh, sweetheart. I am so, so sorry._

There were so many things he wanted to say. 

But Blackwall found that he couldn’t come up with a coherent response, so he just opened the cell door and stepped in, crouching down to her level but still maintaining a distance. She sucked in a gasp as he came closer and the tears that were dripping down her face weren’t clear like normal tears—they were cloudy and black and left ashen streaks down her haggard cheeks. “I promise it’s me. That bastard’s spell sent myself, Lady Adaar, and Dorian forward a year in time. We’re alive, and I am here with you.” His voice became a whisper that only she could hear and slowly reached his hand out, just barely brushing against her leg. Even through the material of her trousers he could feel the feverish heat from her skin. “I first met you on a starry night in the Hinterlands when you fell into my arms as wet as a half-drowned kitten, and told me you were from another world the next morning.”

Her shivering halted abruptly. Bridget’s lips parted and she appeared to be searching for the right words but ultimately, clamped her mouth shut as she tentatively scooted along the damp and moldy floor. The tears came to a slow and steady halt and a trembling hand reached out towards him. He remained still, encouraging her with gentle eyes.

Without warning Bridget launched herself at him with the force of a galloping horse. She threw her arms around him and the unexpected strength of her embrace knocked Blackwall onto his back with a grunt. She lay across his chest, her face tucked in the crook of his neck as best as she could manage while ignoring the edges of his helmet. “It’s really you,” she whispered into his ear, voice cracking with emotion. “That’s the one thing they couldn’t find out, so it’s really you…!”

Her entire body burned as it pressed against him.

“Aye, it’s really me.” It had been a long time since anyone had hugged him, much less a woman, and with such intensity. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like—to be held by another. It was selfish of Blackwall to crave more as he carefully wrapped his arms around her, relishing in the contact like the simple man he was. She felt so light and hollow, as if all the life in her had been sucked out. Yet her embrace was as strong as a storm at sea, and she unabashedly clung to him like there was nothing in the world that could tear her arms away.

Blackwall didn’t deserve any of it.

“Not to interrupt such a lovely reunion, but need I remind everyone that we need to keep moving if we wish to prevent all of this from happening?”

Dorian’s slightly irked voice rang out in the corners of the prison, and Bridget’s body stiffened at the sound of it. She raised her head somewhat and Blackwall saw the beginnings of a blush creep up on her sunken and pale cheeks. She released him like a hot coal and scrambled to her feet, coughing into her hand and avoiding everyone’s eyes. Blackwall stood up as well and shot the pompous mage a dirty look; he wanted to like Dorian, he really did, but the Vint seemed hellbent on being a son of a bitch.

“Do you know where your staff is?” Vazrah asked Bridget kindly, at her side in a flash. The guilt she had worn upon finding Fiona and Varric was tenfold in Bridget’s presence. 

“They broke it.” Bridget shrugged limply. “It was the first thing they did. I can still use magic, obviously, but...there hasn’t been much point. Escape has been impossible with all the Venatori and demons running amok.” 

“Bridget…” Vazrah scooped her into her arms, holding her in a brief and delicate hug as if the qunari feared breaking her. “I’m sorry. I’ll fix this, and none of it will have happened. I promise. We’ll destroy Alexius.”

“As long as you let me hit him with a lightning bolt, I’ll be good.” Bridget managed a shaky grin when Vazrah released her. Blackwall hated how...wrong it made her look, with her otherworldly scarlet eyes and skeletal expression.

The party, now fully reunited, took up the march to discover Alexius once again.

As they meandered through corridors and rooms that had clearly once been furnished for nobility before the castle had been overrun by Venatori and red lyrium, Blackwall fell into step beside Bridget. None of them spoke until the group came across a series of storage rooms; Vazrah, Dorian, and Varric took it upon themselves to enter and search through the chambers to find anything that could be useful and perhaps find out a little more about the dark future. Bridget’s gait was slow, she was breathing hard, and her legs were visibly shaking. She looked like she could pass out at any moment.

“You three go on ahead. I’ll stay with Bridget and we’ll be on watch for any Venatori bastards coming through,” Blackwall announced, unable to keep the protective edge from his tone. Bridget gave him a grateful look as she leaned against a wall in what she probably hoped was a casual manner, waving goodbye to the other three with a weary hand.

“Sorry,” she mumbled disparagingly when everyone had dispersed through the doors. “Haven’t been up and about in some time.”

There was a wooden table with musty scrolls of parchment, thick tomes whose titles were written in other languages, and a myriad of arcane artifacts on the opposite side of the room. Blackwall led her to it and helped her down into the chair closest to the fireplace, which was miraculously lit. Though with all the red lyrium crystals and the heat she herself was putting off, it probably wasn’t needed. 

“I look like shit, don’t I?” Bridget asked with a derisive grin as she sprawled out in the chair. “It’s been a year since I’ve seen my reflection in anything but a dirty puddle.”

“You’ve looked better,” Blackwall replied honestly. A thousand questions raced through his mind—he wanted to ask what they did to her, what all she knew of this dark future. But he couldn’t. Even if this Bridget wasn’t going to exist when they defeated Alexius (because they were going to defeat him; Blackwall knew it in his soul), she existed here and now. He would have to be a cold hearted fool to subject her to his own morbid curiosity.

“Better than that Fiona lady, at least. She’s gotten the worst of this red lyrium shit. She’s one of the ‘gardens,’ or so I’ve heard the Venatori saying when they think I’m not listening. Varric and I are just...pigs being fattened for slaughter.” She stared down at her hands, which were no longer trembling as much as before. “They shoved that stuff down our throats. Wanted to see how we would react. It’s like an infection. It eats away at your mind, at your soul. Some people have a natural resistance at first but they eventually succumb the more and more they’re fed it. And some people don’t even last a day.”

Bridget’s red eyes fixed him with an intense stare and she suddenly gripped her right wrist with her left hand, fingernails digging into the scabbed-over gouges on her skin just enough to draw blood. “It’s feels like hellfire is burning under my skin. Sometimes if I do this, it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. I did it a lot back in my other world, but usually with something other than my own fucking fingernails. Hope would yell at me if she was still here. But she’s not, so here I am, a self-destructive dumbass. Don’t,” she raised her voice slightly when Blackwall almost lunged forward as her nails dug in deeper and blood so red it was almost black welled up and dripped down her wrist, “try to stop me. Please.”

The ‘please’ was said so softly and so desperately that he froze.

“Hope left the Fade to try and help me,” she continued. More and more blood trickled down and splattered onto the cobblestone floor. It smelled like the smoke of a fire smoldering into ashes late at night and not the usual coppery scent of blood. “But the Elder One’s demons tore her to shreds. She once told me that when I had been in Thedas long enough I would eventually start to enter the Fade in my dreams. Yet it never happened. So the demons had to come to me physically, which is why they never found out about...the other world.” A bitter laugh escaped her lips and she stopped squeezing her wrist, wiping the blood off on her horribly soiled shirt. “I’ve forgotten almost everything from there. I would have called it a blessing when I first came to Thedas.”

Blackwall didn’t know what to say.

He wanted to hold her again. To sweep her into his arms and repeat apologies until his voice gave out. 

He almost told her what he had done all those years ago as she sat there with bloody scars and an acrid smile. He wondered how she would react; he wondered if she would even care, after the year of torture she had suffered. 

He wondered if the true Bridget would forgive him or if she would refuse to speak to him forever.

The arrival of Vazrah and the others saved Blackwall from doing something stupid that he would regret even when returning to the right time.

“I found this,” Vazrah informed Bridget as she tossed a plain-looking staff with a crack running down the length of the handle at her. It had clearly seen better days.

Bridget caught it with ease and inspected it briefly before nodding in satisfaction. “It’s no Mjölnir, but it’ll do. Thanks.” Varric wordlessly handed her a stone jug and she didn’t even hesitate to guzzle the contents, wiping her mouth and throwing it to the ground. It shattered into a hundred little pieces with a gratifying crash.

Nothing more was said and the group moved on. 

They came across their first batch of Venatori as a reunited party in what was clearly a torture chamber, what with the decaying smell of blood and various tools of impalement laying about. Three of the bastards all crowded around the dead body of an Andrastian Mother, laughing and taunting about how their Elder One was the only god that had ever existed. Before anyone could move, Bridget surged forward and swung the staff in a low, graceful swoop; blue volts of lightning sparked forth in elegant arcs before turning into solidified spears that shot directly into the chests of the Venatori. They all thudded to the ground without a sound, eyes open in literal shock.

“Sorry. Been waiting to do that.” Her eyes had a frantic sheen to them and her knuckles were white from gripping the staff so hard. She bent down and closed the eyes of the Mother with shaky fingers, whispering something in a language Blackwall had never heard in his life, nor had he ever heard her speak it. The body was pitted with stab wounds and showed signs of magical burns.

_Poor Mother. Where was your Maker when you needed Him most?_

They heard voices coming from the adjacent chamber when they exited.

“Tell me why the qunari bitch was at the Temple!”

“Never.”

It was Leliana’s voice, hard and cold. A sharp slapping sound followed by a groan of pain echoed throughout the hallway.

Vazrah kicked the door down with the strength of a small dragon and the party charged inside. The Inquisition spymaster hung from chains connected to the ceiling, her face as skeletal as Bridget’s, minus the red lyrium infection. A bruise was forming on one cheek; a deep cut was dripping blood on the other. The Venatori tormenting her spun around, face a mix of confusion and irritation as he raised the hand holding a sharp knife, but he had no time to react. Blackwall rushed forward, sword drawn, and drove the blade deep into the man’s gut. It cleaved through flesh and organs like butter. Leliana wrapped her legs around his neck and twisted hard, snapping it with a satisfactory crack. The Venatori gave a wet, breathy gurgle and slumped to the ground.

“You’re tough,” Vazrah commented with a low whistle. Varric shot at where the chains were connected to the ceiling and the devices snapped; Leliana landed gracefully on her feet and ripped the manacles off with a snarl.

“How?” 

It was just one word, but the force behind it and the chilling way Leliana said it was terrifying. Blackwall repressed the urge to shudder.

“Alexius’ spell moved us forward in time. None of this is real,” Dorian explained as the spymaster grabbed a bow and quiver full of arrows down from a weapons rack. It seemed counterintuitive to have such a thing in a torture chamber.

“Well. It’s real enough for me. And the rest of the world,” she shot back. If looks could kill, Dorian would be slumped on the floor next to the Venatori with the amount of poison Leliana was carrying in her glare.

“Nice to see you again too, Nightingale,” Varric interjected with a somewhat nervous smile. She didn’t reply and just pushed past them, heading for the door.

“Do you know where we can find Alexius?” Vazrah asked as she followed, clearly once again having a mental “oh, fuck” moment of guilt. 

“I imagine he’ll be in the nicer part of the castle...if there still is one,” Dorian muttered under his breath.

“The throne room. It’s where he spends all his time nowadays. He never leaves. What do you intend to do when you find him?” Leliana whirled on Vazrah and fixed her with an icy stare. She had always been somewhat short and curt but evidently a year of torment and torture had hardened her heart in ways Blackwall could not even begin to imagine.

“We’ll reverse his spell and stop all of this from happening,” Vazrah explained, flinching under the emotionless gaze. 

“Then we’d best get moving. Your presence has most certainly caused an uproar.” The finality in Leliana’s tone was definite, and no one argued with her.

With the spymaster leading the way, the group made their way outside into the courtyard. When Vazrah, Varric, and Blackwall all laid eyes on the sky, they gasped in near unison.

“The Breach! It’s…”

“Everywhere.”

The entire sky was a sickly green, full of angry swirling clouds. There was not a patch of blue in sight, and the sun was completely gone. Rifts big and small floated in mid air, dotting across the courtyard like macabre decorations of some sort. Parts of the castle floated in above them in the sky as well, some just a few handfuls of cobblestone while the others were giant chunks of mortar as big as a house.

Bridget gazed up at the horrific sky, eyes closed almost wistfully. “I miss the moon and stars,” she murmured. “They were so beautiful here. Nothing like...”

_Home_. Only Blackwall knew what she had been going to say.

“The whole world looks like this now,” Varric added, staring upwards just as dejectedly. “Shit, what I wouldn’t give to see the sun again.”

They didn’t have time to mourn the disgusting state of the sky and the rest of Thedas. The Rifts, seeming to react to their presence, decided it was as good a time as any to spew forth handfuls of demons. Everything became a blur as the party launched into battle positions. Fireballs and lightning bolts filled everyone’s nostrils with the smell of smoke and ozone. Arrows soared through the air and thudded into the flesh of monstrosities. Blackwall parried blows from deadly claws and stabbed unceremoniously at everything that came towards him with an unearthly screech.

At one point his helmet came off in the midst of the chaos. He saw it tumble to the ground just as a wall of fire from Dorian’s staff engulfed it and a pack of demons in flames. When the spell ended, there was nothing left but a molten puddle of iron. He would grieve over the loss of the dependable piece of armor later, when there was no one trying to kill him.

After what seemed like an eternity but really was only a couple of minutes, the demons were nothing but wisps of energy being sucked back into the Rifts. Vazrah sealed each one as quickly as she could, panting with the effort. They were all running out of stamina; they had to find Alexius before it was too late.

They took a short rest at the royal docks. Even Lake Calenhad emitted an eerie shade of green, interwoven with bloody hues of red where the lyrium grew beneath the surface of the water. 

They patched up their wounds as best they could. The three mages downed lyrium potions to restore their strength. Blackwall noticed that the gashes in Bridget’s wrists were bleeding again, probably from the aggravation of being in battle, but he didn’t say anything. She didn’t bother wrapping bandages around them—Blackwall was certain that she knew it wouldn’t matter if they succeeded, because the Bridget standing before him would just become a distant memory from a long and horrible nightmare.

It still pained him to see her flesh torn, however.

A palpable collective sigh of relief rose up from them all when they at last made it to the foyer that came just before the throne room. There wasn’t a guard in sight and no demons lurking in the shadows. It was so utterly silent, walking among the broken chandelier and ripped up rugs, that it was almost cacophonous. The large wooden door leading to the throne room showed signs of attempted sieges and there were runes inscribed on the surface that mocked them all with a pulsating glow which alternated between reds and greens.

“A magical lock. How clever.” Dorian put his hand against the runes, and his eyes widened. “...this is basically a children’s spell. Any young mage in Tevinter could open it.”

“So, the Magister is probably trying to trick us with something really easy before we all fall into his horrible trap,” Varric mused. “I’m betting it’s possessed spiders with poison that dissolves our insides.”

“Or,” Vazrah interjected, looking thoughtful, “he only allows fellow mages to be in the throne room with him. Even the weakest of locking spells would be hard for a non-mage unless they had a key.”

“Let’s just open the damn thing. All that matters is taking him down and fixing this mess.” Bridget stared at the runes with a hateful gaze, red eyes full of fury. Varric and Leliana held similar expressions. The three were more than ready to end this dark future that had been their hellish present for so long.

Dorian nodded his assent and traced one of the runes with his finger. The entire glowing mass sputtered out into nothingness and the door slowly swung open, creaking ominously. Weapons drawn and eyes peeled, they slipped through the open doors.

The throne room was basically intact. It was a little dusty but there was nothing really out of place. The chandeliers and braziers were all lit and it was a lovely change from the constant darkness and shadows of the rest of the castle. It practically looked the same as the room they had all been transported from only hours earlier. Save for the man slumped on the throne being Magister Alexius and not Arl Teagan, it was almost like nothing had changed. 

“I thought we might find you here,” Vazrah stated grandly, waltzing up to the throne with her head held high. Her horns glinted in the candlelight. 

Alexius looked up from whatever he was writing and he barely resembled the proud and haughty mage they’d all been ready to take down. His face was drawn and thin, he looked as if he had forgotten what food and sleep was, and he wore a miserable expression. “I knew I had not killed you,” he said with a sigh. “I knew you would come back to haunt me. I did not know it would be now.”

“Was all this worth it?” Dorian asked softly. “Was destroying the world worth all the power?”

“No.” Alexius let out a bitter and harsh laugh. “At first, perhaps. Ferelden cowered before me. The Elder One promised to save Felix. But it all went wrong, and my son died because of my pride. Empress Celene was assassinated. The Elder One took control of Orlais. I was his little puppet. And now...he is done with me.” He spread his arms wide, showing empty palms, and kicked the staff that had been resting against the throne so that it rolled down the steps. “How fortuitous that you arrive today. I was planning on ending it all but alas, it seems I’m just far too cowardly to go through with it. I don’t suppose you would care to do the honors?”

Everyone just stood and stared, equal parts confused and equal parts suspicious. 

“That’s why you had the child’s locking spell on the door, and why there were no guards,” Dorian said slowly as the realization dawned on him. “You heard we had arrived, and you just...waited.”

“You were always far more clever than anyone gave you credit for, Dorian.” Alexius gave the younger mage a sad and tired smile. From out of the pockets of his robes he produced a pendant and chain—the amulet that he had used to perform the time spell. It floated from his hands and landed into Dorian’s open palms. “No matter how many times I tried to reverse the explosion at the Conclave, I couldn’t do it. The magic simply wouldn’t allow me to go that far back, nor would it let me return to Felix’s accident. I couldn’t save my son, the Elder One grew tired of me, and the world suffered for it. Go back and fix this, Dorian. Don’t let me become a monster only to serve a worse monster.”

“...I will.” Dorian’s oath was uttered in a thick, hoarse voice as his fingers closed around the amulet. 

No one said a word when Leliana silently lifted her bow, aimed it at Alexius’ heart, and let loose an arrow that soared true. It thudded into the Magister with a dull thunk and he slumped into the throne, limbs going slack as his head lolled forward. A single trail of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth as he breathed out a wet sigh, voice resigned.

“...thank...you...”

And then he was dead, and from the hall outside there came a terrible sound of a chorus of unearthly shrieks. 

In the midst of the chaos a deep, dark, twisted laugh rang out amongst choirs of demons.

“Fuck, that's the Elder One,” Varric swore as he scrambled to load his crossbow. “Must have been watching us the whole time!”

“Cast your spell. You have as much time as I have arrows.” Leliana fixated Blackwall, Vazrah, and Dorian with a hard stare. “Make sure to use what you have learned here wisely.”

Dorian and Vazrah nodded and the two grabbed onto the amulet, closing their eyes and concentrating. It began to glow softly, the same glow that had sent them there but yet...it was a kinder light this time.

“Blackwall, wait.” Bridget grabbed onto his sleeve. “There are so many things I should have told you. I blamed myself for your death because there was too much you didn’t know. A-and I clearly can't tell you now, because the me in the true time would kick my ass, but just...be patient with her. Please.”

Something crashed against door. The entire room shook. Blackwall opened his mouth to reply as Varric and Leliana rushed to an angle where it would be most efficient to fire their arrows, but Bridget suddenly grabbed both sides of his face and yanked him down to her level. 

She kissed him.

It was a clumsy, spontaneous, inexperienced performance. He tasted the red lyrium on her—it burned against his lips like whiskey and sent shudders through his whole body. She pulled away before his could fully process what had just happened and gave him a cheeky grin, and the redness in her cheeks wasn’t just from lyrium infection. “Don’t tell her I did that. She’ll die of embarrassment.” 

Bridget leapt away from him with the grace of a halla, brandishing the broken staff. All signs of exertion were gone. She stood y’all and firm, lightning crackling in her fingers as the door burst into thousands of splinters of wood, and an army of demons poured through. 

“WHAT’S UP, _FUCKERS_!” she screeched valiantly as she lobbed a net of electricity at the first wave, locking them in manacles that cried out like thunder.

Varric and Leliana immediately began to fire arrows and crossbow bolts at the trapped demons. The first wave went down easily, and Bridget launched another static cage spell to circle around the next. The air began to smell like a storm with each lightning bolt and it was the most wonderful aroma he had ever experienced. 

Blackwall raised a hand to his still-tingling lips and stumbled almost drunkenly over to where Vazrah and Dorian were casting the spell. Neither of them had seemed to noticed any of what was happening; so fixated were they on the amulet that Blackwall doubted they even heard the demons break in. He glanced at the two mages for a moment, feeling somewhat useless as Varric and Leliana and Bridget gave their all. When he turned his attention back to the battle at the sound of an agonized scream, his mind went numb.

A demon held Bridget up in the air with one clawed hand. The other was speared through her chest as if she were nothing more than a stick of meat to be roasted over the fire. Her mouth hung open and her red eyes stared ahead with an unseeing gaze, body twitching. 

It ripped its hand back out from her chest, sending a fountain of blood spraying in all directions, and threw her as easily as an empty sack. It held her still beating heart, which pumped a weak spray of blood every second. Her body soared through the air and slammed into a pillar with a sickening crack and she lay there, still and crumpled and limbs splaying out at too many odd angles.

The demon looked directly at Blackwall and shoved the heart into its needle-filled maws, chewed once, and swallowed. 

Blackwall didn’t realize he was beginning to move towards her until a hand grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back.

“If you move, we all die!” Dorian snarled with a violent shake of his head, but not unkindly. 

The light engulfed the three of them just as a hulking figure materialized behind the last line of demons. Blackwall didn’t see its face but the menacing, infernal laughter that sounded like glass shattering and bones snapping would haunt him just as much as the dead corpse of the girl who had kissed him so fiercely.

And then they were back.

There were no demons in the throne room. Just dozens of Venatori, a confused Alexius, an equally bewildered Varric who looked like he just really wanted a drink, and Bridget.

A Bridget who had hazel eyes and a normal complexion. A Bridget who showed no signs of being punched through the chest by a demon. A Bridget who would never know of the horrors of a dark future full of death and decay.

“You’re alive.”

Blackwall was holding her before he realized he had moved. He clung to her, desperately, keeping her as close as he could to his chest. Part of him wondered if she could hear how fast his heart was beating. Part of him _hoped_. And the rest of him simply basked in the brilliance that it was to hold her, not giving a damn about who was watching. “Thank the Maker,” he whispered unevenly, voice quivering with reverence. But only a portion of it was directed towards the Maker; the true recipient of his devotion was Bridget and Bridget alone. “Thank Andraste. You’re _alive_.”

Blackwall wondered briefly what it would be like to kiss her then and there. To taste the true her without red lyrium corrupting her lips.

_I’d wager a hundred gold coins that she’s as sweet as honey wine._


	7. the coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so i'm no longer 4 chapters ahead of what i'm posting because life's a bitch and i haven't had time or motivation to really write hrnnnnnnngh
> 
> anyway uhhhhhh. my god. this has over 400 hits and 50 kudos. i'm shook. like??? this is literally a shameless self insert. and people actually enjoy it. thanks, y'all. that's something.
> 
> also hey look my friend finished my commission and it meeeeeeeeee 
> 
> she made me a hot piece of ass and i owe her my life now.
> 
> accidental fictional drug use warning towards the end. it was dumb. but an opportunity presented itself and it actually has plot significance i swear.

Blackwall was still holding her when Alexius was put in handcuffs by Vazrah. Bridget watched it happen over the crook of his shoulder, brain fuzzy and everything slightly difficult to comprehend. She didn’t catch what Vazrah and Dorian were saying to Alexius, but the man looked so thoroughly somber that she imagined it wasn’t all puppies and kittens and sunshine. 

Varric, however, was giving Bridget a very snide and somewhat evil smirk at he took in the image of Blackwall hugging her as if his life depended on it. The rest of the Venatori had their gazes trained on the two of them as well.The dwarf’s devilish grin shook her out of the hazy state of her mind.

“U-um…!” she stammered as her face went crimson. “Blackwall, I, uh…!”

“I think you’re suffocating her, Hero. And getting her all nasty with whatever that is on your armor.” Varric luckily came to her rescue despite the diabolical expression he had been wearing only seconds earlier. 

Blackwall immediately let go and shot backwards like he’d been burned. His mouth gaped like a fish out of water as he looked Bridget up and down; she was indeed covered in the viscera and gore where his armor had pressed against her. His eyes and expression were one of utter panic. “Andraste’s tits, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—fuck.” A hand ran through his hair as he averted his gaze from her, clearing his throat with a gravelly grunt that she felt in her core. “...my apologies.”

Bridget was about to answer but was distracted by the comical sight of Vazrah shoving her middle finger in Alexius’ face as he was dragged away sullenly by a group of Inquisition scouts. His son trailed behind him, somehow managing to look equal parts relieved and worried. 

“Well, am I glad that’s all over with!” Dorian cheerfully intoned, looking quite pleased with himself. It seemed all was well and good. Until a flustered-looking Fiona burst through the doors, and behind her trailed a veritable army.

“...or not.” 

Dorian’s utterance echoed the looks on everyone else’s faces as soldiers marched into the throne room, blocking the Venatori from making any moves as they created a circle around the Herald and her attaches. Two held yellowed banners with a strange yet somewhat familiar insignia painted on the fabric, and a crown of ugly dog heads marked the top. When a man followed in flanked by two other soldiers were in heavier armor and had bigger swords, Blackwall immediately stiffened and bowed low.

_Wait, that’s the royal Ferelden banner. And Blackwall’s being all subservient. Oh my god, that’s—_

“Would someone care to tell me why my uncle is not here, why his castle has been overrun by Tevinter fanatics, and why the mage rebellion has spiralled out of control to the point where the bloody Inquisition stepped in? _Without_ my authority, I might add?” The man looked a little younger than Varric with tanned skin, combed-over dirty blond hair, a mess of attractive stubble, and wrinkles that could only come about from years of intense stress. He was dressed even nicer than Dorian, only instead of silks and velvet it looked like bear fur and leather.

“King Alistair, please, I can explain everything!” Fiona blurted out as she gave a trembling bow, looking like she had just shit herself.

“Yes, I’m sure you can, Grand Enchanter,” King Alistair fucking Theirin responded dryly, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. He was like a hotter, nicer Cullen. Only he didn’t have bloodlust rolling off of his body in waves, and he actually seemed to have an iota of a personality instead of resembling a tub of expired mayonnaise. 

“Actually, I think that responsibility should go to me,” Vazrah said loudly and boldly as she stepped up to the king of Ferelden. She gave him a respectful nod and held out her hand, smiling pleasantly. It was not lost on everyone in the room how the qunari towered over him by at least a foot. “Vazrah Adaar. Former Tal-Vashoth mercenary turned Herald of Andraste and bearer of a green thumb that most definitely is not meant for growing gardens. It’s nice to finally meet you, Your Majesty. Impressive honor guard you’ve got there.”

The king actually shook Vazrah’s hand and it was obvious he was trying very hard to keep his royal scowl.

Bridget was shocked that he touched her friend’s blood stained hands until she remembered her various forays into Thedosian history. _Right, this dude was a Warden who fought in the Blight ten years ago. He’s probably used to all sorts of gore though I still don’t know where it came from. I wonder if Blackwall fought with him. I’ll have to ask._

Alistair’s eyes surveyed the throne room, landing on every figure with a discerning gaze. “From the desperate reports I was getting in Denerim, I’d thought this place was going to be covered in sacrifices for blood magic.”

“People exaggerate when there’s a crisis. My agents have secured the man responsible. The Inquisition will pay reparations for whatever damages these Venatori have caused. We will also write up a full statement for you,” Vazrah promised slyly. “Here is the short version—some magic caused a little mix up, allowing one Gereon Alexius to take control of the mage rebellion stationed here in Redcliffe. Grand Enchanter Fiona is a contact who asked for help. The Inquisition came, discovered some devious machinations that were being set into motion, and stopped it.”

“...I see.” Alistair turned onto Fiona and something unreadable flashed across the elf woman’s face. “As much as it pains me to say this, the mage rebellion will no longer be welcomed in Redcliffe. I supported your cause, but the chaos brewing from it cannot be tolerated as it threatens the wellbeing of my subjects. You have a week to move your people elsewhere, Grand Enchanter.”

“B-but, Your Majesty! We have hundreds who need protection!” Fiona begged, eyes glistening with unfallen tears. Bridget felt a sympathetic pang in her chest for the poor woman. She was lucky it was Blackwall who had found her; if it had been anyone else, she might have been caught up in the political bullshit of the mage rebellion. 

_Well, the Inquisition is technically a bunch of political bullshit, but I don’t think I would have done very well on my own here._

“Might this be a good time to remind you that we _did_ come here searching for mages to help close the Breach?” Vazrah interrupted with a raised hand, like a comical mockery of a school girl. “Those terms I was going to negotiate with Alexius still stand.”

“And what terms would that be?” Fiona demanded, looking lost and afraid and kind of like a rabbit in a fox’s den. “I know not everyone in your Inquisition looks upon us with kindness. Will we be your prisoners, forced to conjure a spell whenever you command?”

“Maker, no!” It was the first time Bridget could think of that Vazrah had used the Andrastian figure as a swear word. She’d been under the impression that the qunari mage wasn’t a big fan. Vazrah looked horrified at Fiona’s bitter accusation. “You’d be our allies. You will fight by our side as equals, and I’ll be damned what anyone else says. I’m the fucking Herald. I’m also a mage. If I want the damn mage rebellion at my side, then by Andraste’s sacred ashes, no one had best argue otherwise.”

Bridget came to the conclusion that Vazrah was pulling a “the Herald’s word is final” and she had to admit: it was smart, especially in front of the king of Ferelden.

_Why is my friend so cool and sexy and badass and smart and I’m just a burnt chicken nugget?_

“I suggest you take those terms,” Alistair warned Fiona, but not unkindly. “It’s better than what you’ll get from me.”

“I…” Fiona looked from the king to the Herald, shaken, before her entire body sagged and she nodded slowly. “I accept the Inquisition’s terms. My people will fight with you to close this Breach as equal partners. Thank you, Vazrah.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but can someone please explain why the three of you disappeared for three seconds and then came back looking like you’ve been through the Blight?” Varric called out. Bridget gave an enthusiastic nod, looking more closely at Vazrah and Dorian and Blackwall. She was shocked the three were still standing with how beat up and bloodied they appeared.

“When we return to Haven. And preferably after I’ve had a bath,” Vazrah promised with a grin, albeit a shaky one.

“I suppose if the entire mage rebellion is joining the Inquisition, I might as well accompany them as the token Tevinter,” Dorian sniffed almost disdainfully. But there was a delighted mischief in his eyes that betrayed his true feelings.

“Wait, you want to stay?” Blackwall asked with a shock. 

“Oh, haven’t I mentioned? The south is so charming and rustic, what with demons popping up everywhere and templars arresting every mage they see take shit without permission. Besides…” Dorian looked down at his hands, and Bridget noticed for the first time that he was holding the amulet Alexius had been using. Only this one looked like it had been tossed through a washing machine and then dropped from the roof of a skyscraper. “I was partially responsible for the research that went into Alexius’ time magic. It’s only fitting I join.”

“Well, Dorian,” Vazrah slung her arm around his shoulder and gave him a noogie which, if his hair had been its usual immaculate state, probably would have caused him to faint. “I, for one, welcome you aboard. Just a warning; there’s no one to hand feed you grapes in Haven.”

“A pity. And here I was, hoping there would be clerics all lined up ready to perfume my feet with Antivan oils and tell me how handsome I am.”

Judging by the exasperated frown Blackwall wore, Bridget was fairly certain he wasn’t terribly pleased with their new ally. 

The journey back to Haven was mostly filled with subtle jabs at Blackwall’s disregard for personal hygiene and Dorian’s penchant for channeling the inner soul of a peacock. The not-so-light hearted banter was better than nothing, though...especially considering the haunted looks that refused to leave the faces of the three who had been caught up in Alexius’ spell. 

And better than focusing on the rib shattering hug Blackwall had given her as well as her own messy romantic bullshit giving her an aneurism.

\---

Bridget, Blackwall, Varric, Dorian, and the Inquisition’s main advisors all stood in the war room as Vazrah launched into the full truth of what had happened at Redcliffe. Their initial return had been met with mixed emotions on account of Vazrah sending a raven ahead to inform Leliana and Josephine of the successful alliance with the mages. They were thrilled. Cullen and Cassandra were not. It took everything Bridget had in her not to lose her collective shit at Cullen and his “all these mages will just become possessed and try to kill us in our sleep” speech. She instead imagined him as a jar of mayonnaise getting put in a microwave and then exploding. It made her feel much more vindicated as opposed to smiting him with a thunderbolt.

True to Vazrah’s blatant “I’ve stopped giving a shit” nature, she simply pulled the Herald of Andraste card again and listed every other alternative. Which was nothing, because according to some of Leliana’s agents, the templars were becoming even bigger pieces of shit than they usually were and no one knew what the hell they were doing or where they were at the moment.

Everyone listened to Vazrah’s report with rapt attention. Dorian and Blackwall occasionally peppered in their own facts here and there. 

If Bridget hadn’t been transported to Thedas by a magical talking pocket dragon, she would have never believed it: that Alexius’ spell had sent them forward in time, and the dark future they had been forced the maneuver through sounded worse than Dante’s imaginative depictions of hell.

Everyone was very careful not to describe the exact conditions the future Varric and Bridget had been found in. But inferring from the state of the future Fiona and Redcliffe itself, it...probably wasn’t good.

After what felt like a lifetime but really was only a couple of hour the meeting was adjourned. Vazrah, being the Herald, still had mountains of paperwork to attend to in regards to the mage alliance and most likely a strongly worded apology letter to the king and Arl Teagan. Dorian announced his intention of finding somewhere to sleep that wasn’t infested with fleas. Varric sauntered off to the pub in contemplative silence, most likely being over run with all sorts of plot devices that used time magic.

When Blackwall and Bridget exited the chantry, he turned to her with a serious look on his face. “Can we talk in private?”

“Uh. Sure. Was it something I did?”

“...in a way.” Blackwall’s grave tone made her slightly uncomfortable, as did the intense look in his eyes. 

_Maybe it’s about the mysterious hug I still have no idea about what prompted it. Oh god, what if he says he regrets it? What if he says he needs to stay away from me because of some weird Grey Warden oath of celibacy?! ...not that we’ve done anything, and we’re clearly not a ‘thing’ by any means, and I still don’t know if he considers me a friend. Fuck emotions, man. They’re not worth it._

They were at the frozen lake by the time Bridget’s mental panic attack ended. The only other beings present were a group of nugs that scuttled off into piles of firewood when they got too close. It was as peaceful and still as the day Blackwall had watched her practice for the first time, and the crisp cool air helped to clear her head somewhat and prevent further freaking out. Or maybe it was the constant, gentle touch of Hope’s mind urging her that everything was going to be fine.

“First off, I would like to apologize for what I did in Redcliffe,” Blackwall began, kicking an ice-encrusted rock with his boot and watching as it rolled down the slope and onto the frozen surface of the lake.

“What you did in—do you mean the hug? Technically you already apologized,” Bridget pointed out, heart sinking immediately, unable to keep the hurt from her voice. _I was right. Whatever we’ve got going on, he’s…_

“That’s not what I meant,” Blackwall hurriedly responded, head jerking up to look at her. “It was...improper. The time and place, I mean. I was addlebrained and overwhelmed, but that was no excuse for embarrassing you in public. So...I apologize.”

“Oh my god, you’re apologizing for sullying my honor.” Bridget covered her mouth, hoping to staunch the laugh that was threatening to break free, but to no avail. She snickered, mood lifting as she watched his face go a delicious shade of pink. “Blackwall, I didn’t mind it at all! I’m still confused as hell to why you did it, and it was a little off putting at first, but I, uh...liked...it…” 

She trailed off, voice going high pitched as the laughter died down. She recalled the warmth of being enveloped in his arms and had to resist the urge to sigh dreamily. 

“...oh. O-oh. I, er...I’m glad...to hear that…?” 

Silence. Very awkward, very deliberate silence filled the space between them.

_This is it. This is how I die._

“I watched you die in that dark future.” Blackwall’s admission cut through the stillness like a blade. His hand clenched into a fist and his voice was thick with an innumerable amount of emotions. “A demon ate your heart. You were broken and in so much pain. You told me that there was too much you’d left unsaid. But despite it all, you held your head high and _fought_ , and I watched you die so that I could come back.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, releasing his fist at the same time. “And when I came back, the first thing that I saw was you alive, I just...moved without thinking.”

Bridget had known that she and Varric had been found infected by the weird-ass red lyrium that apparently ate people’s sanity. She had inferred that something had happened judging by Vazrah’s tale. But hearing it first hand; that she really had been killed, and Blackwall had watched it happen, was incredibly disorientating. 

But that wasn’t what concerned her the most.

“What kind of stuff did I mention that was left unsaid?” Bridget asked slowly, heart rising in her throat as her palms began to itch and sweat. _Does he know? Did future me tell him? That fucking snitch!_

“You didn’t say. Future you said that the you standing before me would get angry, and that you would tell me when you felt the time was right. And I trust that. I know what it’s like to wish for your past to remain private. I won’t push.” Blackwall cleared his throat as the blush deepened. “There were some...other things she may have said or did that I am not allowed to tell you.”

“Let me guess. She narrated some very detailed daydreams about Vazrah that I occasionally have,” Bridget deadpanned, partly wishing that future her was standing before them so she could slap her across the face. At least he didn’t know about the jump. Or if he did, then he was lying, and Bridget really didn’t think that was the case. Blackwall didn’t seem to be that great of a liar; he had too much chivalry all bound up in his bear-like muscles.

“I have said all I dare to say.” Blackwall held up his hands in defeat. 

“Did I at least kick ass?” Bridget asked, unable to ignore her curiosity. “If I was as bitter and broken as you say I was, I sure hope I did. Anger makes for the best motivation.”

“You...were magnificent,” he admitted, though she noticed the question made him squirm uncomfortably. “Demons and Venatori alike, you dispatched them as swift as a summer storm. ...you haven’t killed anything besides demons yet, though, have you? Although I suppose it’s a little too late to bring it up.” His face suddenly became guilt stricken, kind of like a child who had just been caught shoving glue in the speakers on TV less than a minute after being told no. “Andraste...you shouldn’t even have to kill _anything_. You’re not a soldier. You don’t deserve to get blood on your hands.”

“Believe it or not, I have no qualms against killing other people, Blackwall.” Bridget didn’t mean for her tone to get as sharp as it did, but nonetheless she kept talking, unable to stop the words from falling out of her mouth. “Yeah, I’ve never done it. But if I stay with the Inquisition and still have my magic, I’ll have to eventually, and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”

Flashes of imaginings from before flitted through her mind. Shoving a kitchen knife through the chest of another girl as she begged for mercy, tears mixing with blood as her screams tapered off into wet gurgles. Teeth grit as she wrapped her hands around someone’s throat and squeezed so hard she could feel windpipes cracking beneath her fingers, watching the life fade out of their eyes as they struggled weakly. The cold metal of a gun in her hands and the trembling figures backed into a corner as she raised the nozzle and pointed at the space between someone’s eyes, feeling a hot rush from her toes to her head as her finger pressed down on the trigger.

_All those times I thought about death and I couldn’t even properly kill myself._

“Don’t worry about my morality. It’s what you have to do in this world to survive, and I’ll only kill someone who deserves it, demon or not,” she promised in a softer voice, pushing the images away and burying them in a hole that not even a worm could crawl out of.

“Sorry,” Blackwall mumbled, looking abashed and ashamed. “I suppose it was just an instance of you not being from Thedas truly hitting me. I spoke before I thought.” He paused, the corners of his mouth suddenly lifting in the barest hint of a smile. “But you enjoyed the hug, did you?”

_Yeah, no, THIS is where I die._

“I-I mean, who doesn’t enjoy hugs?” Bridget quickly spun around so he didn’t see her horrified face, sputtering profusely. “Th-they’re warm and nice and...a-and...you’re...warm and nice, s-so…”

From somewhere within the deep reaches of the Fade and her own mind, Hope was laughing so hard she nearly choked. 

“Am I, now?” All the shy embarrassment as well as the trepidation was gone from Blackwall’s voice. It had been replaced with—dare she even consider it—a much more flirtatious, husky tone that she was not aware he was capable of producing. It made her feel things. In the pit of her stomach. And maybe a little deeper. 

If Andraste was real, Bridget hoped she would take pity upon her and descend onto the mortal realm to whisk her away to whatever the hell Thedosian mythology believed heaven was. 

When she chanced a look behind her, Blackwall wore a shit-eating grin that put even Varric to shame. Judging by the widening of his smirk, he knew what affect he was having on her and enjoying every minute of it. It was a complete turn around from his usual composed, if not insecure, brooding. Bridget briefly imagined him in tight jeans and a red and black plaid checkered flannel shirt, holding an armful of kittens. She immediately regretted it.

_Bridget.exe has stopped working. Please reboot the system and try again._

“I-I’m gonna go piss Cullen off with Sera!” Bridget announced quickly, sidestepping Blackwall with the grace of a drunken panda. “Good talk! Lovely weather we’re having! Okay bye!”

By the time she made it to the tavern where Sera usually could be found, Bridget really hoped her face would have returned to its normal pale complexion. But when she got Sera’s attention, the elf asked if she was sick because of how “red and gross” she looked and then proceeded to wave a mug of ale in front of her as if booze was going to protect her from illness. Bridget merely flipped her off.

The rest of the day was spent with calling Solas “Eggboy” to mock his baldness and rubbing all of the training swords Cullen often used with pig fat so they were impossible to grab. Needless to say, being chased around angrily while she and Sera cackled as they flitted from prank to prank was a welcome distraction, but Bridget was still a confused mess on the inside about what the fuck she and Blackwall were when she lay down to sleep that night in her cozy nest in Pookie’s stall. 

The dream in which a flannel-clad army of Blackwalls holding puppies instead of kittens as they did grossly domestic tasks such as washing dishes and cooking breakfast definitely did not help.

\---

Over the course of the next couple of days, rebel mages and apostates pledged to the Inquisition’s cause slowly trickled into Haven. Bridget didn’t see much of Vazrah as the Herald was confined to the war room most hours of the day, going over multitudes of political bullshit and other not-fun things. She steered clear of the new arrivals for the most part; Enchanter Vivienne was constantly prowling around as she kept an eye out for anyone who may need a swift reminder of how a “true” mage should act (her words, not Bridget’s), and Cullen and Cassandra were going mad trying to assign certain groups templars who were evidently committed to protecting mages rather than oppressing them. Considering only the rabble usually frequented the tavern (which usually included Bridget herself, Sera, Varric, and occasionally the Iron Bull and his mercenary band), that’s where she spent most of her time.

She didn’t avoid Blackwall per se, but she didn’t actively seek him out. Bridget’s emotions were still too chaotic to approach him without dissolving into a hot mess. She assumed he was busy doing Warden things.

With all the time she spent in the tavern, Sera attempted to teach her darts. She failed miserably, considering she didn’t share the elf’s impeccably natural sense of aim.

Varric took it upon himself to teach her darts the “right” way. She failed somehow even more spectacularly the second time, narrowly missing the head of a bartender with said pointy object.

As Bridget was nursing a mug of watered down rum imported from Antiva (it wasn’t terrible, but she was a fruity drink kind of girl and missed her frozen strawberry daiquiris terribly) while simultaneously scribbling down a list of the spells she had been able to pull off for posterity’s sake, someone poked her in the back of the head. She looked up from her messy scrawls and drawings of stabbing demons and someone who looked suspiciously like Cullen in the butt to see a very tired looking Vazrah towering over her, silver-white hair don in a bit of a messy bun nestled between her horns.

“Could you come with me to the war room?” she asked in a strained voice that practically begged Bridget to say yes. She had the haunted expression of a college student who had a final every day during the next week; a face of horror Bridget knew very well.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Bridget replied as she shoved the parchment into the folds of her cloak and followed Vazrah out of the tavern. “Is something the matter? You look pretty serious.”

“Oh, everything’s fine, between the never ending meetings with various members of Orlesian nobility. Coming up with a strategy to begin the assault on the Breach. Figuring out places for all the new mages to stay. And having a date with Josephine.” The last bit was said with a cheesy little grin as some semblance of life returned to her green eyes.

Bridget raised a skeptical eyebrow as they ducked into the chantry. “A date?”

“...okay, maybe not a _date_ in the true sense, but we’ll be spending the next few days almost entirely alone. Hence…”

She opened the door to the war room to reveal Bull, his Chargers, and Blackwall all circled around the table. Josephine sat in a chair pulled up to the table with a stack of papers, looking far more composed and put together than Vazrah did. 

“I’d like to ask you all go to the Storm Coast to take care of some things for me!”

Bridget waved hello to everyone and shuffled over towards Blackwall, despite the awkward nervousness she still felt. He greeted her with a silent nod, gaze trained on Vazrah as his shoulders squared up into work mode. There was no trace of the flirtiness from a few days ago, nor did there seem to be any ill will toward her for kind of avoiding him. 

“What kind of things?” Bridget asked curiously, glancing at where Vazrah was pointing to on the map. It seemed the Storm Coast was located in northern Ferelden, hugging the Waking Sea. 

“Things that I, as the Herald, am expected to do, but I need stay in Haven to meet with officials from the chantry who are coming from Val Royeaux. They will give us a ‘blessing’ that states the Maker wills the Breach to be closed by the Inquisition and the mages. I’ve already sent Solas, Dorian, Varric, Sera, and some others off to the Fallow Mire to rescue some Inquisition soldiers who apparently have been taken hostage by a local Avvar tribe. For you lot,” Vazrah jabbed a finger at Bull and his crew, “I need you to look into reports of bandits assaulting our Inquisition camp stationed on the coast. As for Blackwall and Bridget...a little bird informed Leliana that there have been recent sightings of Grey Wardens on the Storm coast. I’d like you two to investigate and if you come across any Wardens, see they can provide the Inquisition with any information that may be useful.”

“And if we don’t find any Wardens?” Blackwall looked troubled, staring at the land labeled as the Storm Coast with dark eyes.

“Then any information you may learn yourselves would be quite useful,” Josephine answered with a pleasant and calm smile. She was like lavender-chamomile bubble bath with how elegantly she radiated serenity. “I do hope it wasn’t presumptuous of us to ask you to do this, Warden Blackwall.”

“It is my honor to serve the Inquisition,” he replied with a dignified bow.

“So, Boss,” Bull spoke up, one good eye not covered by a patch glinting and mouth curled in a smirk, “I’m assuming you want these bandits dead rather than joining the Inquisition? Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me and my boys to handle it.”

“If they surrender and pledge themselves, good for them.” Vazrah shrugged. “But our reports mention slaughtering a patrol, so I’d rather you...clean house than focus on recruiting, so to speak.”

“Shit yeah.” Bull cracked his giant knuckles. “Been awhile since we had a decent job that got the blood pumping. When are we leaving?”

“As soon as you’re all ready, we would prefer,” Josephine tapped the stack of papers in front of her thoughtfully. “The alliance with the mages gave us an advantage for travel. A group of former enchanters approached us with a teleportation spell that we may utilize for purposes such as this. Simply gather up your gear and report back to the war room, and we will send you on your way.”

Bull, if possible, looked slightly pale as he and his mercenaries all eyed one another. “...is it, uh...accurate? It’s not gonna spit us out into the ocean or into some Vint fortress, right?”

“I’ve tested it. It works like a charm.” Vazrah patted his muscular shoulder with a slightly sadistic grin. “Which means if I wanted to, I could use it on you while you slept and send you halfway across Thedas. But only if you piss me off.”

Bull grunted, glowering at the other qunari and crossing his arms over his scarred, bare chest. “Good thing I sleep with one eye open,” he grumbled.”

“And which eye is that? The one you have hidden in your arse?” Krem joked from Bull’s side, elbowing his waist roughly. He was Bull’s lieutenant and second in command of the Chargers, a young man with a stylish undercut hailing from Tevinter. Bridget liked him despite not having much interaction with him. She liked the Chargers overall; they were always jolly and ready to help around Haven, even if they had somewhat of a reputation as a mercenary band. 

“No, the only thing I have hidden in my ass is a dagger ready to go into anyone’s throat if they try to sneak up on me when I’m bathing,” Bull shot back with such sincerity that Bridget didn’t think he was joking. She cringed as the image materialized in her mind.

“That must make things _hard_ with that Tevinter mage who just joined—Dorian, was his name?” Krem waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Bull looked like a literal bull ready to charge and gut the other man with his horns.

“Keep talkin’, Krem. I’ll show you what else I keep hidden,” he growled, messing up Krem’s hair in a harsh noogie with his enormous hand.

“If you have time to bicker like children, you have time to suit up,” Vazrah pointed out somewhat exasperatedly, shooing them out with limp and tired hands. “Go!”

“You just want some more alone time with the ambassador,” Bridget snickered under her breath, but she was close enough that she knew Vazrah had heard it. Judging by the choked grunt and flustered glare she got, she was right.

Less than half an hour later, the group was gathered around a giant roll of parchment that was about five feet across and five feet wide. Bridget donned the simple leather armor from before, but Blackwall had an upgraded set—the dark future had done a number on his usual stuff, so the blacksmith had beefed it up, including a new helmet. His sword and shield had gotten a promotion as well; both were a little more decorated and looked much more durable. The Bull’s Chargers were also fit for battle and raring to go. 

The teleportation spell was a series of complicated interlocking circles and ever-shifting runes painted onto the parchment that reminded Bridget of transmutation circles from a certain anime. Vazrah stood over it with her staff held out. 

“This has been connected to the forward camp in the Storm Coast,” she explained as the circles and runes began to glow softly. The tip of her staff shared the same glow, and magic filled the room. It was becoming second nature to Bridget, being able to sense the telltale signs of a spell as it made her fingertips tingle and gave her skin goosebumps. “Simply step in the middle and it will take you there. Scout Lace Harding will be there to answer any questions you might have and provide directions. Good luck, and try to be back within a week; that’s when we plan on sealing the Breach, if these talks go according to plan.”

“Do try not to get eaten by a dragon,” Josephine added all too casually as she inspected a letter with great intensity, tapping the quill pen in her hand absentmindedly. “Apparently one has been sighted at the coast.”

_...A DRAGON?_

“Peace out, bitches!” Bridget literally jumped into the spell the moment Josephine finished talking, excitement getting the better of her. The effect was instantaneous; she felt a great rush of air surround her and everything spun before going dark, her body weirdly numb. A moment later—yet somehow it also felt like an eternity—she heard a distinct popping noise and she swayed on her feet as an unfamiliar scene materialized out of thin air. 

Her nose was assaulted by the strange stench of rotting fish, salt, and pine. Seagulls cooed somewhere in the distance, accompanied by the sound of waves crashing far away. The sky was gray and cloudy. It was drizzling and misty, kind of like Seattle during the spring, and tents bearing the Inquisition mark surrounded her. Stunted evergreen trees dotted the outside of the camp, which was tucked against the rocky slope of a cliff glistening with the rain. 

“Oh! Hello there!”

Bridget spun around at the voice and almost screeched with enthusiasm. A stocky dwarf girl was smiling up at her, with burnt orange hair done in an intricate bun and a cute, plump freckled face. She wore the standard Inquisition scout armor and a quiver and bow were strapped to her back. She held out her hand to Bridget, gazing up with curious and soft yellow eyes. “Welcome to the Storm Coast. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Scout Harding!”

“You’re...adorable,” Bridget whispered almost reverently as she shook Harding’s hand, who had a surprisingly strong grip. “Can I hug you?”

The dwarf’s face flushed into a ruddy mess among her freckles and she stammered for an answer, but was saved by the arrival of the others. They blinked into existence behind Bridget, looking disoriented and some a little green in the face as they gazed around with hazy eyes.

**You just heard the word ‘dragon’ and you went right into it, didn’t you?** Hope chuckled over their bond, sending waves of bewildered amusement.

_Shush. As much as I love you, you’re a pocket dragon. So sue me if I want to see one that’s actually dragon sized!_ Bridget replied playfully, rolling her eyes mentally. 

“ _Fuck_ magic,” Bull swore dizzily as he steadied himself. “Did not expect that shit to be so sudden and bumpy.”

Even Blackwall was looking a little nauseous, having taken off his helmet and holding his head. “I think...I would have preferred riding a horse,” he mumbled, body shuddering once. 

“Oh, come on! It wasn’t that bad!” Bridget admonished. It had been a startling sensation, but she certainly didn’t feel sick. Maybe it was because she was a mage. A quick glance at the elven mage Bull had in his band, a woman nicknamed Dalish (who insisted her staff was a special bow but no one believed her) cemented this suspicious since she looked bright and chipper.

“Maker, I hope the trip back isn’t as bad.” Blackwall groaned as he shoved his helmet back on, rolling his shoulders and facing Scout Harding. “Scout Harding, I presume?”

“Y-yes,” she answered with a hesitant nod, though she shook his hand as she had with Bridget’s. She cleared her throat and looked upon the newcomers with a scrutinizing gaze. “Alright, so, who is going to be looking into the bandits who are attacking the patrols?”

“That would be my boys and I,” Bull answered gruffly. His bare chest was all shiny from the misty drizzle. It was kinda hot. Not as hot as domestic flannel Blackwall, but still an image Bridget appreciates her subconsciousness focusing on. 

“There are maps to the latest patrol’s last known whereabouts in that tent over there.” She gestured to the largest one that was situated directly in front of a struggling camp fire. “As well as the locations of previous attacks that have been marked. I would offer to send some scouts along, but these guys have really got us struggling to keep a hold on the coast and I don’t want to lose any more people. They know what they’re doing.”

“Probably not simple bandits then,” Krem mused thoughtfully. “Trained professionals pretending to be bandits is more likely.”

“We’ll take a look and formulate our attack. Don’t worry, we’ll make the bastards regret that they messed with the Inquisition,” Bull promised gleefully as he sauntered into the tent, Krem and the rest of his crew following behind. Bridget marveled at their ability to all fit, considering Bull’s massive girth and horns.

“So you two will be investigating the Warden rumors?” Harding asked Bridget and Blackwall when the Chargers disappeared.

Bridget saluted, wiping away some wet strands of hair in the process. “Yup! And maybe hopefully see a dragon that we’ll _totally_ stay away from and not go anywhere near to conduct some. Uh. Research.”

The horrified yet simultaneously not surprised look Blackwall gave her almost made her laugh out loud. Almost. 

Harding visibly blanched at the mention of dragons. “I wouldn’t get too close if I were you,” she warned. “A couple days ago, we saw one take out a giant. It was pretty violent. I think it was a, uh...a species called Vinsomer? I don’t know a lot about draconology but I know it was big and breathed lightning.”

If Bridget were a dog, her tail would be wagging.

“Lightning, you say?” 

Her fingers itched as the storm sensed her eagerness, a hound on the hunt waiting for its chains to be severed.

Seeming to sense Bridget’s premature desire to start shooting thunderbolts at everything, Blackwall placed a firm but not unkind hand on her shoulder. The contact sent a thrill of electricity that the storm would never be able to duplicate up her spine. “We’ll keep an eye out. Is there anything more you can tell us about the Wardens?”

“Not really,” the dwarf answered bashfully, looking slightly guilty. “They’re quick and moved through the area before we realized it. There are abandoned camps scattered throughout the region. I can give you the general area of where some are located.”

“That’ll do just fine. We’ll make it work.”

Blackwall pulled out a map from the confines of his armor and Harding made a few small x’s here and there. He shoved it back into its hiding place before it became soaked from the rain. He glanced around the camp for a second or two as if looking for something and when he didn’t see it, his face visibly fell. “No stables?”

“Ah...the region is a bit too rocky and unstable for horses,” Harding explained. “Back when it was a major trading post for dwarves, they primarily used brontos, but the steep cliffs are just too dangerous for most mounts.”

“Would nuggalopes be okay?” Bridget asked, bouncing on the heels of her feet as she imagined her hair flowing in the wind as she soared across the ravines on the majestic back of Pookie, the most absolute unit in all of Thedas.

“Probably, I’ve heard that they’re pretty tough! But they’re so rare that I doubt we could get any sent up here.” Harding sighed a dismal sigh as she shared Blackwall’s forlorn expression.

“I have one at Haven. His name is Pookie. I could use the teleportation spell to go get him and bring him here!” Bridget suggested brightly, before frowning and shaking her head after giving it some more thought. “...no, I don’t know how he would react to the magic and I don’t want him to get sick or hurt.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate that,” Blackwall all but teased, his lighthearted tone sending her internal butterflies into a tizzy. She hoped a flock of crows would show up to eat them all before they got out of hand. Even though it might give her indigestion.

“Oh, one more thing!” Harding interrupted as the two began to walk away, heading down the slight path carved into the rocky slope that led away from the camp. “There are Rifts here, and since the Herald isn’t with you, they can’t be sealed. Be careful of any demons and spirits.”

“Dragons, demons, and spirits, oh my!” Bridget rubbed her hands together gleefully. “This’ll be fun.” Mjölnir seemed to thrum with just as much excitement from its position on her back.

“Thank you for the warning. We’ll report back within the next couple of days, if all goes well.” Blackwall grunted out his appreciation and they set off, the rain nearly soaking through their clothes and the stench of fish and forest in their noses. “We’ll stay near the shoreline rather than attempting to traverse the ravines and hills,” he informed Bridget as the Waking Sea came into view. “It’ll be much more wet, but that way we can avoid bears and hopefully the bandits.”

Bridget had only seen the ocean a couple of times on vacation, and both of those times it had been a tropically fake blue sea as tranquil as a dove. 

She much preferred the view spread out before here. Giant wooden warships were washed up along on the rocky shore, barnacles and lichen growing on their rotten and soaked hulls. The waves were an angry grey and foam curled up in their crests as they rolled viciously against sharp rocks, the sound a beautiful cacophony of chaos. The remnants of branches bleached bare from water and wind were scattered about and seagulls perched on their tops, watching with voracious eyes for any hint of movement that might be food. She tasted salt on her tongue as she closed her eyes and imagined herself being rocked to and fro by the waves, letting the water overtake her.

**Stay alert. That could kill you if you aren’t careful, and I wouldn’t be able to bring you back.**

Hope’s warning reverberated through Bridget’s mind and she forced herself to come back to reality. As if distrusting her ability to concentrate, Hope materialized into the pockets of Bridget’s cloak. Glancing up at her with a suspiciously observant gaze, Hope’s sapphire blue eyes clearly said one thing: “Don’t get distracted with those destructive thoughts.” Bridget sighed and shrugged apologetically, scratching the dragon under the chin in hopes of placating her. 

Blackwall was already a few paces ahead, unaware of Bridget’s lapse in time and space. She jogged to catch up, wincing when her boots squeaked on the wet pebbles; she had hoped to not make a sound so he wouldn’t notice. Luckily, he didn’t turn around, instead focusing ahead towards the expanse of rocky beach spread out before them. To the right was the sea; to the left, the blocky, geometrical-shaped basalt cliffs and bits of pine forest that Bull and his Chargers would most likely be navigating. 

“According to the map, there are some caves the dwarves carved out that can be used as shortcuts,” Blackwall said after ten minutes of nothing but walking and wetness. “We could also camp out in them if we don’t find anywhere else suitable. They’ll be dry enough, at least.”

_Ah. Caves in a fantasy land. I wonder what fresh hells could be lurking in the shadows, waiting to eat us?_

“You’re the Warden; you get to call the shots. I’m but a simple leaf on the wind of fate, following wherever it deems to blow,” she answered as poetically dramatic as she could even though she really, really did not want to find out what would be hiding in the caves. 

“Taking theater lessons from Dorian, are we?” he asked somewhat sarcastically.

“Actually, I haven’t talked to him all that much since coming back to Haven. He’s been busy with the new mages and I didn’t want to get caught up in all that drama, so I pretty much hid in the tavern,” Bridget explained, hoping it would also give him an understanding as to why he hadn’t seen a lot of her. “Sera and Varric tried teaching me darts. I almost took out a bartender’s eye.”

“Ah. I see.” Either Bridget was imagining things or Blackwall’s voice was slightly strained, the waves nearly drowning out his low and gruff mutterings. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

OOF.

That was like a dart to the heart.

“Wh-what?!” Bridget sputtered, stumbling a bit on a pocket of loose sand and rock. She nearly pitched forward, had it not been for the fact that Blackwall had halted in his tracks, and so her forehead met his back somewhat painfully considering the armor he was wearing. She considered getting a helmet for herself for a moment but then remembered her predisposition for awful hat hair and decided against it.

Blackwall spun around when he heard her grunt in pain. She looked up, clutching her throbbing forehead, and his face was lined with guilt and other unsaid things. 

“That was unworthy of me,” he said softly, pinching the bridge of his nose under the helmet and running a nervous hand through his beard. “Forgive me. You are your own person and should be allowed wherever you wish to be. I suppose I merely got used to your near-constant presence.” 

It really hit her then (no pun intended) that they were alike in terms of constantly feeling regret for things they couldn’t fully control. She fell in love with him a little more right then and there. 

“Really? I would get tired of hanging around with me. I’m annoying as shit.” Bridget slipped her hands into her pockets and Hope’s tiny clawed paws and spiked tail wrapped around her wrists comfortingly. “And a bit of a mess, in case you haven’t figured that out by now.”

“You don’t bother me at all. On the contrary, it’s a delight to be around someone who isn’t afraid to be herself. Besides, all the best people are messes,” Blackwall intoned wisely. 

She let out a short and nervous laugh as the butterflies decided to put on a rave party without her explicit permission. “You’d better count yourself among those people, Blackwall,” she said with a harsh sincerity, bumping his shoulder with hers. “Now stop being all monologue-y and take me to these caves so I can get the shock of some kind of zombie fish thing ready to attack me out of my system.”

Really, if he kept talking like that, her heart would burst and melt all over.

“I highly doubt there will be anything like that in there,” Blackwall scoffed in amusement, but he began to walk forward again with his shoulders held a little higher than before. 

A high cliff cut into the beach and stuck out over the sea just up ahead. Crumbled remains of the cliffside and rocks dotted the beach, arranged in such a cluster that it would be impossible to pass through unless you could fly over. Towering over the cliff was a huge blocky statue of what was obviously a dwarf judging by the massive stone beard and overall stocky build, holding a giant hammer in its carved hands. Gulls soared overhead and Bridget got slightly dizzy when she looked straight up, glad there was no sun overhead to blind her and instead it was wondrously cloudy and drizzling out.

“Those statues mark former ports the dwarven empire used just under the surface,” Blackwall explained as they approached the cliff. “The Storm Coast was a once a major trading hub for Orzammar and there were dozens of underground sea routes. Now it’s mostly used by pirates and smugglers, but considering how dangerous the waters can be and how often there are storms...the ports have fallen into disrepair.” He pointed to a dark mouth of a cave that was carefully hidden amongst the rocks and debris. “That should lead us straight through the mountain and if Harding’s marks are correct, an abandoned Warden camp isn’t too far from the other end.”

“Onwards into the creepy and foreboding cavern of doom,” Bridget announced with false bravado, brandishing her staff like a club. 

It was tricky climbing up the slippery rocks, but there was enough of a former path that they didn’t need to fully get on their hands and knees. Blackwall ducked into the darkness first, sticking close to the side of the cave, and Bridget followed close behind him, clutching Mjölnir as if her life depended on it. It was considerably more chilly in the cave, but it was definitely dry compared to the constant dampness of the beach. Bridget kind of wished she could control fire magic so they could have a light.

Blackwall had been thinking ahead, apparently. From under his armor he pulled out some flint and feeling his way along the cave wall, found an old and unused torch attached to the stone.

Bridget swore she heard a strange scuttling sound, like a herd of crabs dancing along concrete.

The first torch lit up only a small portion of the cave. It didn’t hardly make a dent in the shadows that seemed almost like a physical wall of darkness, but it did show another torch just a couple feet away. 

As Blackwall moved towards it with the flint in hand, Bridget definitely heard more skirttering, and it was creepy as hell. She half expected the girl from the Ring to pop out of nowhere.

He lit the second torch and the sound of something squeaking in a perverse mockery of cute mice filled the cave to the brim. It was shrill and piercing and came from the shadows, but began to get closer and closer and closer—

And then half a dozen spiders the size of large dogs burst out of the darkness with eerie glowing eyes and hair legs, and Bridget let loose a scream louder than she thought was capable of coming out of a human set of lungs.

“Andraste’s tits!” Blackwall swore in alarm as he drew his sword and shield, already stabbing at the first spider that launched itself at him. The blade sliced cleanly into its many eyes as green gunk shot out of the wound. The thing shuddered once and collapsed silently on the ground, many legs twitching occasionally. 

“Magic! Use magic!” Hope shouted from the folds of Bridget’s cloak. She was too busy standing frozen in terror as the spiders advanced on her, chittering their mandibles as a bright green venom dripped from their jaws to actually hear the dragon.

Blackwall lunged in front of her just as a spider jumped, blocking its body with his shield. It hit it with a loud thud and fell to the ground on its back, stunned for the moment. The other spiders all hissed and one spat out a gob of green stuff that narrowly missed the two of them, landing on the ground just behind her. She heard it sizzle dangerously where it began to melt away a cluster of branches that must have washed up long ago during a high tide or storm.

That jolted Bridget into action.

“PIKA PIKA, BITCH!” she screamed as she channeled the storm through her staff and sent bolts of lightning shooting forth from the end, striking the oversized arachnids with deadly precision. They shrieked, a sound not unlike the noises demons made, and with the electricity coursing through their bodies it kind of sounded autotuned. The smell of hair burning and other indescribable but god awful scents filled the air as the spiders collapsed into nothing but crispy shells.

She clutched her chest as if it would slow her heart rate down and slumped against the wall, gasping for air (and immediately regretting it because she could taste dead spider). “Fuck,” she mumbled shakily, trying not to cry. “Spiders. It had to be giant fucking spiders. I would have taken zombie fish people, demons, hell, _anything_ but giant spiders!”

“I was not expecting that,” Blackwall admitted with a remorseful tone, poking one of the spider corpses she had electrocuted with his sword. It crumbled into a pile of dust immediately. 

“For future reference,” Bridget got out through gritted teeth, taking a deep breath and loosening her deathgrip on the staff, “I am terrified of bugs, and giant spiders have now made the top of that list, and I really don’t want to go skulking about in any more caves.”

“Well, you took care of them admirably,” Blackwall replied brightly, despite the intense glare and middle finger she was giving him. “Even if you did scream. Quite loudly, I might add.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” she muttered, adding another middle finger to her insulting salute. “Otherwise there would be a thunderbolt in your ass right now.”

“What was that first part? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Shut up.”

By some miraculous stroke of luck, they didn’t run into anything else trying to kill them, large spiders or not. The rest of the cave was empty and quiet as they continued to light the torches along the walls. Remnants of previous tenants could be seen in the forms of broken jugs and threadbare moldy blankets. They passed a skeleton leaning against the wall that wore rusty armor which hung limply off of its brittle bones. It was covered in torn spiderwebs and Bridget couldn’t resist the shudder than ran through her when they walked by. 

Bridget almost flopped onto the wet and stony sand when they emerged from the cave and back into the ever-pervasive drizzle. The stormy sky never looked so beautiful as it did after experiencing the fresh hell that was a cave ambush by giant bugs. 

In the distance near a pile of driftwood and a ship that had been cleaved in half by a boulder was the tell tale green glow of a Rift. To their left the beach tapered into marshy grass and led up into the forested ravines and bluffs. Blackwall pulled out the map once again and peered at it for a brief moment. “Just up that hill over there should be a Warden camp,” he announced with certainty as he put it away.

“If it’s actually a nest of giant spiders, I just want you to know that I’ll be running in the other direction,” Bridget informed him without any trace of resentment, giving him a beaming smile that she hoped conveyed just how serious she was.

“Noted.” Blackwall chuckled as he began to make his way onto the soggy grass, his boots squelching in the mud with every step. Bridget followed close behind him, hoping that all the wet traveling wasn’t going to give her trench foot or something, when an earth-shattering roar captured her attention.

She spun around and with wide eyes, saw her first true dragon of Thedas.

It was soaring above the sea, far enough away that she couldn’t make out every little detail but close enough to see the overlapping black, orange, and white that colored its scales. It had large curling horns that weren’t unlike Vazrah’s and flashes of violet-blue lightning could be seen with every pump of its leathery, bat-like wings. Its cry sounded like a storm come to life; like thunder had been given a voice. Its tail was almost as long as the rest of its body and had one spiky appendage near the very end. It was big. At least twice the size of a small plane. She could tell that much from the distance.

Whether or not it saw her and Blackwall, Bridget didn’t know. It roared once again as it flew out of view, past the mountainous terrain and into a swathe of misty clouds that were settling on the water.

“...I’m still impressive, right?” Hope asked Bridget almost desperately from her pocket as Bridget continued to gape slack jawed into the misty skies long after the dragon disappeared from sight.

“Yeah. Uh huh.” Bridget nodded numbly, forcing herself to turn back around and follow Blackwall. He was standing a few feet away, also looking up at the sky, but most likely making sure the dragon wasn’t going to return for an aerial assault. 

“That’s not a reassuring answer.”

“I mean...you’re cute as hell, but that thing was huge,” Bridget exclaimed wildly, slapping her cheeks a couple of times in hopes of ridding the giddiness that was welling up within. “I wish it had landed. I would have loved to talk to it.”

“She wouldn’t have understood you,” Hope answered, voice thick with a sudden surge of emotion. “The dragons of today lost that ability long ago. She wouldn’t understand me either, even if I spoke to her in the tongue of old.”

The sorrow that Bridget felt over their shared bond was immense and nearly overpowering. It was like, for a single moment, all of the despair of the world poured into her soul, and she nearly doubled over, clutching at her chest as her heart panged in agony.

It ended as quickly as it had begun.

Hope, realizing immediately what she had done, slammed the door shut on their bond. “I-I am sorry, dear heart,” she stammered, poking her head out. Her scaly cheeks were a shiny wet sheen. “I didn’t mean for that to bleed over.”

“It’s fine,” Bridget quickly reassured her with a gentle touch. Hope’s serpentine head butted against her hand like a cat, pressing hard into her skin. “Can I ask about it later?”

“When we return to Haven,” Hope promised with a nod. Bridget didn’t comment on the dampness she felt against her palm.

Blackwall looked like he wanted to say something, most likely hearing the end of the conversation by the time Bridget caught up to him, but his mouth remained closed. They trekked along the slopes and sodden terrain in total silence for a brief period of time and when they hiked up one of the less-rocky hills to find a couple of canvas tents huddled around a fire pit that was now a puddle, Blackwall halted in his tracks. On the side of one of the tents there was a black emblem emblazoned; two griffons and a chalice. The Grey Warden symbol.

“Excellent. Scout Harding’s reports were correct.” Blackwall knelt down and pushed away the flaps of the tent with the emblem, peeking his head in. 

Bridget did the same to the other tent. The only thing lying on the wet grass was a seemingly innocent leather pouch. She reached forward to grab it when something tickled her nose, causing her to sneeze violently. Her hand jerked just as it closed around the pouch and it to tipped over. A strong-smelling white powder spilled out and she sneezed over and over again, gulping in air as she caught her breath. Something flew up her nose. It was a strange musky scent that she couldn’t place. When she backed out of the tent, pouch in hand to see what Blackwall had found, her head immediately felt heavy and her eyesight began to go fuzzy.

“Whoa…”

Bridget swayed slightly as Blackwall turned into two, then three, then six, each one more transparent than the next. Her tongue felt thick and unwieldy, like it had swollen to three times its size. The strength needed to hold the pouch completely evaporated from her arms and it dropped out of her hands, landing straight down so that no more of the powder came out. When she looked at all of the Blackwalls, each one was suddenly a different color of the rainbow, save for the original who was still black and grey and beardy. But then his beard turned into a rainbow and sparkling unicorns started to dart back and forth between the colors, whinnying merrily. 

“...Bridget? Are you feeling alright?” Blackwall noticed her wobbling to and fro as Hope jumped out of her cloak and onto the original Blackwall’s shoulder. The others echoed his sentiment and the resounding repetitions made her giggle. The giggling made her lips feel ticklish and tingly and her head rolled back somewhat, flopping onto her back when her legs didn’t feel like standing up anymore.

“Dude...you got gay,” she snickered, hearing how slow and unsteady her voice sounded. It made her laugh more because for some ungodly reason, it was the funniest shit in the world. 

“I...what?” The Blackwall with Hope looked utterly concerned and he glanced down at the leather pouch on the ground next to her. He nudged it with his foot and some more of the white powder spilled out. His face immediately blanched. “Shit. You got into Griffon Dust.”

“Hmngngh...the fuck’s that…?” she slurred, bringing her hand up to her face with much difficulty and wiggling it. The rapid movements caused her hand to disappear briefly. That freaked her out.

“It’s what the Wardens call it. The qunari organization known as the Ben-Hasserath call it something else in Qunlat that I can’t pronounce,” Blackwall explained as he knelt down, holding two fingers in front of her eyes. Two fingers that multiplied into four. And each finger had a couple of smaller fingers for arms. One waved. She wanted to wave back, but her arm dropped down onto her chest, overworked.

“Ben Affleck...did what now?” Bridget mumbled, squeezing her eyes shut. Colors burst behind her eyelids, some of what she was pretty sure didn’t exist.

“It’s a hallucinatory drug distilled from the crushed up roots of various plants used in torture and information-gathering,” Blackwall answered slow and steady. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“...too many.” She opened her eyes for a second to see, and his hand had morphed into some fleshy octopus sort of thing, so she immediately shut them again.

“How long does it last?” Hope asked worriedly, even though there was a hint of laughter in her voice she was obviously trying to hide.

“Hard to tell. Some people resist it better than others. It looks like she accidentally sniffed a little, and it’s usually dissolved in water, so I couldn’t give you a straight answer.”

“Dancing Groot...young and swoot, only seventoooooot,” Bridget sang horribly off key from her position on the ground, trying to raise her hand again to give Blackwall a thumbs up but considering that she couldn’t actually feel it move, she was fairly certain it was still cradled against her boobs. God, she really had nice boobs, even though Vazrah’s were far superior. She wanted to use them as pillows. Soft, warm, boob pillows. But no, she might soil them if she used them for her own devious purposes, and they should be for Josephine’s use only. Maybe she could get Vazrah to use _her_ boobs as pillows instead.

It was then that Bridget realized she was incredibly high. 

She had never been high before. 

_Guess there’s always a time for firsts when you’re in medieval fantasy land._

“Hahahahaha fuuuuuuck,” she mumbled, wanting to roll over onto her stomach so she could hide her face in the mud, away from Blackwall and Hope’s stares. But she could barely even more her fingers, much less her entire body, so she just lay there as the rain gently pitter-pattered onto her face and her clothes soaked up mud and water.

“I’m guessing you can’t move, can you?” Blackwall asked from somewhere above her head.

“Nope.” The p made an aggressive popping sound in her brain. “And if I open my eyes you’ll turn into Cthulhu. A beardy Cthulhu. Wearing a lumberjack costume.”

“Alright. Up you go.”

Strong arms yanked Bridget up and she felt like she was flying. A startled squeak left her lips as she was swung up into the air, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase “high as a kite.” She thought she would float forever and she would be able to soar off into the sunset in order to find the dragon. Maybe it would let her ride it. Maybe it would sing karaoke with her and all the songs would consist of 70’s disco hits. It was almost a disappointment when she landed, chest pressed against a hard and cold surface. She chanced a peek and opened one eye; she appeared to be on Blackwall’s back. He pulled her arms forward and wrapped them around his chest, grabbing her thighs (she jerked slightly at the unexpected touch) and adjusting them so that she wouldn’t fall. Hope sat atop his helmet, gazing down at her.

“It would be cruel to try and look for more camps with you in this state. I’ll find us somewhere to rest until you return to normal.” His voice boomed in her ears pleasantly, like the strumming of a bass guitar. Bridget wanted to hold onto his voice and pet it. It would probably be like petting a bear. 

“Spiders,” she mumbled sleepily as Blackwall began to move, each step making her bounce slightly. She tried slapping him only to succeed with a weak pat at his chainmail. “Don’t...bring me to any fuckin’ spiders. I’ll go all rabid Pikachu on you.”

“I am afraid I don’t know what that means,” he apologized, bemusedly amused. “But it sounds frightening.”

“S’really bad. What I did to the spiders. You go poof.” Her head swayed in sync with his walking and it was starting to make her tired. Tired and dizzy. Dired.

She made the mistake of watching the ground as Blackwall moved from her perch on his back. Everything from the grass to the rocks to the random sticks on the ground swirled like a whirlpool until they became angry faces that snarled at her. They sounded like the dragon.

Before she knew it, Bridget was passed out.


	8. interlude i: daisies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these interludes are just short chapters in vazrah's pov because she's one of my favorite oc's i've ever made and i enjoy exploring her personality and whatnot. you can skip it if you want but it's also chock full of vaseline content fyi. 
> 
> god im horny on main for adaar inquisitors why are qunari so hot.
> 
> also i'm editing the tags on this fic to make them less messy and fit more.

The moment everyone has left for the Storm Coast, they are at last alone together in the war room. Vazrah turns to Josephine and asks, quite plainly, “What are your favorite flowers, ambassador?”

Josephine Montilyet wears her fatigue well. Certainly better than Vazrah herself does. Her bronze skin shows no signs of exhaustion; her hair is perfectly styled with not a strand out of place. Her makeup is carefully applied with no excess, save for perhaps right under her eyes to hide the bags. Indeed, her eyes are the only way Vazrah can tell that even the indomitable Josephine can be worn out. They do not carry their normal vibrant sheen and every time the ambassador enters a room with a different amount of light than the previous one, she squints slightly.

But otherwise, Josephine is still impeccably gorgeous, and Vazrah’s heart beats a little faster when the ambassador gives her a delightfully curious smile. “Mistress Adaar, our friends have not even been gone for a minute, and you are already trying to distract me from all of this work!”

“Not intentionally,” Vazrah promises with a laugh as she sits down next to the smaller woman. She has a brief fantasy about how nicely their bodies would fit together underneath a pile of fur blankets, with Josephine curling into Vazrah’s chest the way a key fits to its one and only lock. 

She can hear Shokrakar snickering from halfway across the world.

_Vaz, honey, you’ve got it bad._

Vazrah Adaar is well aware of just how quickly and easily she has fallen for Josephine Montilyet. 

Painfully aware.

“Oh? Your tone sounded quite intentional,” Josephine points out as she stifles a yawn, eyes scanning a document briefly before signing her name in swooping letters and golden ink. She holds out a thick stack of papers that, if fastened into a shield of some sort, will most definitely catch a few arrows before they get anywhere near the holder’s heart.

“Just making conversation, I suppose. All these political documents and affairs can be so dull.” Vazrah takes the stack with a theatrical sigh, vision already blurring after just looking at the title. 

“I’m sure a night at an Orlesian party would change your mind. You’d be calling politics anything but dull after such a performance.” The Antivan sticks her tongue out only slightly when she writes. Just the barest hint of plump pinkness, right in the corner of her mouth, the very edge touching her upper lip. 

Vazrah swallows as she stares as subtle as possible and wonders, not for the first time, what fancy pastry Josephine tastes like. She hopes it’s those little cakes with the strawberries and vanilla cream and almond crumble.

She decides to keep the fact that she has attended many Orlesian parties for various contracts to herself for now, considering not all of them were with an invitation.

“Is that your way of inviting me to such a fete, Josephine?”

She cannot keep the coquettish hum from her voice as she grins boldly, reveling in the way Josephine’s cheeks darken with the most sophisticated shade of rosy red.

“Perhaps after the Breach is sealed,” the ambassador replies in a higher pitch than usual, clearing her throat loudly and doing her best to remain focused on the documents in her hand rather than chance a look at the qunari Herald sitting right next to her.

They fall into a mutual shared silence as they become absorbed in a world of words and thinly veiled threats so thick with compliments it is almost certain a marquis here and a comtesse there would love nothing more than to rip the Inquisition’s banner down with their own hands. It amuses Vazrah how bullheaded the human nobility gets when something doesn’t go the way they want it to go. And they have the nerve to call her people oxmen. As usual, the thought of the wealthy and powerful in Thedas refusing to come together in a time of such tragedy saddens her. The sorrow, as usual, turns into a bitter anger as hot as the flames she commands when she thinks about how she is at the center of it all. How the Inquisition, a symbol of a religion she does not believe in, calls her the Herald of a prophet she thinks is horse shit. 

_This isn’t a holy calling, Vaz. You’re a mercenary. You belong with us. Let the humans handle their dead Divine on their own and come back. We’ll find a way to fix that cursed hand of yours._

The letter from Shokrakar was burned long ago, but she still remembers every drop of ink on the parchment. As much as she wants to follow the advice of her mentor, Vazrah knows that staying with the Inquisition and letting them call her the Herald of Andraste is the right thing to do. Even if she’s losing money and a hard-earned reputation for it.

“Daisies.”

The word startles Vazrah from her thoughts and she nearly messes up signing her name, the blocky and cumbersome letters so different from Josephine’s lovely calligraphy. She turns her head to meet Josephine’s eyes, which have regained just a little of their luster.

“My favorite flowers are daisies, if you must know.”

The comfortable silence settles between them again, and Vazrah finishes her stack of papers twice as quickly as usual, mouth spread in a wide grin the entire time as a plan formulates in her mind. The next morning she is standing at the door to Josephine’s chambers in the side house of the chantry, a giant roll of parchment tucked under her arm. She knocks once; twice; three times, soft and cordial raps of her knuckles.

Josephine opens the door almost immediately. She is, as usual, dressed in her fine gown and her skin is glowing—a sign she actually got a little sleep the night before, considering Vazrah practically devoured much of their paperwork. “Mistress Adaar!” She is surprised and—dare Vazrah to even think it—perhaps a little charmed. “I did not think I would see you until we had our appointment in the war room. What brings you here so early?”

“Care to take a stroll with me?” Vazrah has forgone her usual attire in favor of a traditional antaam-saar, which she somewhat regrets due to Haven’s never ending chill, but the way she notices Josephine’s gaze rake over her bare forearms and exposed midriff…

It's worth it.

“Here?” Josephine’s eyebrows quirk up in confusion. She motions for Vazrah to step inside and out from the drafty hallway.

Vazrah smiles excitedly and does just that, dropping the parchment onto the floor. It unrolls immediately to show a teleportation spell painted onto the surface, not unlike the one she had used to send the group to the Storm Coast. “I want to take you somewhere I think you may enjoy,” she explains as she waves a hand over it, activating the runes. The chamber is alit with a gentle warm glow. “I promise we will be back in time to take care of our duties.”

Josephine looks down at the spell and a bitter taste overcomes Vazrah’s mouth when the ambassador doesn’t say anything and simply stares at the scroll as if it is going to grow fangs and devour her. She immediately regrets coming here and blustering through like the ox she is, without any thought to Josie’s own feelings. Of course she would be skeptical about all of this. Only a fool would agree to such a thing—to step into an unknown spell with someone like her.

Yet the words Vazrah hears next come as a shock.

“Are you...asking me on a date?” Josephine’s gaze turns to meet with Vazrah’s. She can hear Shokrakar’s laughter ringing in her ears.

_Well, what do you know? She’s finally starting to not be so dense around ya, Vaz._

“I-If you want it to be a date, then...y-yes?” Vazrah knows her face is heating up and she clears her throat loudly, non-marked hand coming up to tug restlessly at her braid. “I just thought it would be...nice to get out of Haven for a couple of hours.”

“O-oh. Oh my. Um.” Josie goes that delicious shade of pink and nibbles her lower lip nervously. Vazrah has to resist the urge to groan aloud at the unintentionally wanton gesture. She smiles, eyelashes fluttering bashfully. “I’d be delighted to, Vazrah.”

The qunari is fairly certain it is the first time she has called her by her first name and not some politely political epithet. It sounds as lovely as Josephine is herself but nothing can top her almost divine allure.

Vazrah’s face hurts from how wide her grin is. She gives a little celebratory laugh and steps onto the spell scroll, holding out her hand to Josephine. She takes it, and it is so soft and dainty in her own calloused and coarsed hand that it’s almost laughable at how different their lives were before the Inquisition brought them together. The spell whisks them off immediately; Vazrah holds Josephine’s hand tightly to ensure her magic protects the ambassador from the usual after effects non-mages often experience upon teleportation. 

The air that greets them is a warm breeze. The sun is high in the sky without a cloud to be seen. A sweet floral scent fans their faces as Josephine gasps gently when she takes in the scene before them, her eyes wide with wonder and mouth hanging open slightly.

They stand in a field of daisies. The white petals reach up past their ankles and sway lazily in the wind. Other flowers dot the landscape here and there, but it is almost entirely overtaken by the daisies, and Josephine’s awestruck gaze is even better than Vazrah could have imagined. A dilapidated stone hut lay across a shallow stream to their right, with a broken fence encompassing an area big enough to be a small pasture. If Vazrah closes her eyes, she knows she would be able to hear the laughter of a small child and the loving words of a mother and father.

“This is where I was born,” she says quietly as she sits down in the middle of the field and plucks a handful of daisies from the ground. “We’re in Tevinter right now, far away from human settlements. My parents were farmers, like many Tal-Vashoth. This was their land. I planted these daisies when I was small and the field was my responsibility. Which was reckless on my parents’ part, since I was shooting flames out of my hands every hour. But I guess it was better than to let me take care of the animals.”

“It’s...I’m afraid I don’t quite have the words,” Josephine admits apologetically as she gingerly lowers herself next to Vazrah, watching her fingers intently. They are weaving stems and leaves together so quickly and efficiently it’s clear she’s done it many times before.

“When you said your favorite flowers were daisies, I knew I had to bring you here. I connected the spell scroll many years ago, and whenever I need to be alone, I come here.” Vazrah smiles as the daisies in her hands begin to take the form of a diadem. She doesn’t remember the last time she made a flower crown, but her fingers still have the muscle memory. “Every time I return I’m afraid it’s going to be destroyed, but so far nothing except neglect has happened.”

“...your mother and father, are they…?” Josie doesn’t finish, looking abashed and sympathetic.

“Yes.” Vazrah nods, wincing when she bends a stem too harshly and the flower breaks. She pulls it out from the crown and picks another one, threading it back into rest of the stems much more carefully. “They got sick. I was always healthier than them, probably because of my magic. But I couldn’t save them. I made a pyre for them since it was the one thing I _could_ do and as I was burning them, the Valo-Kas mercenaries showed up. Shokrakar took me in and became my mentor. She was the first mage besides myself that I had ever known; neither of my parents had magic. In a way, she kind of became my new parent. And the Valo-Kas became my new family.”

“I...I am so sorry, Vazrah. I had no idea.” Josephine places her hand on Vazrah’s upper arm, eyes swimming with a mix of powerful emotions. 

“I miss my mother and father every day, but I don’t let it haunt me.” Vazrah gives her a thankful smile as she tugs the last stem into place and places it on top of Josephine’s head. The flower crown stands out perfectly with its stark white petals, a contrast to her dark locks. “Besides, if I hadn’t become a mercenary, I would have never been at the Conclave. I would have never become the Herald. And so I never would have met you.”

The flower field was lovely, yes, but blushing cheeks and coronated head of Josephine Montilyet was the most beautiful thing in all of Thedas. 

“You make a fair point.” Her voice is a little rougher than usual, skittish and flustered as she raises a hand to the flower crown, rubbing the silken petals between a thumb and forefinger. “...thank you. This is lovely. I truly appreciate you sharing something so dear to you with me.”

“Wanna know something that’ll make it even better?” Vazrah pulls out a bottle of wine from the pouch she had attached to her hips, grinning deviously. “The finest Antivan wine in all of Haven. I had Sera...procure it for me. It was going to waste just looking pretty on the shelf.”

The ambassador covers her mouth with her hands, cheeks crinkling with mirth as she attempts to stifle a laugh. She fails, and the sound echoes throughout the air like bells. “O-Oh dear. Don’t tell me you stole wine from the chantry storeroom.”

“I didn’t _personally_. Too big and clumsy for that.” Vazrah pops the cork off and takes a deep sniff. “Hm. A rosé, I believe, with a hint of peaches and...honeysuckle?” She holds the bottle out to Josephine, who eagerly takes it and tips her head back, taking an elegantly experimental sip. 

“Goodness! I believe I’ve had this exact variety back home. But strangely…” Josie hands the bottle back to Vazrah, a silly smile on her face. “It tastes much better here than it ever did back in Antiva.”

It isn’t until late evening that they return to Haven, slightly drunk on the wine and flower petals gracing their hair and clothing like snowflakes. They had spoken of their homes and families, the most they had ever talked about without mentioning the Inquisition. Josephine had attempted to make some flowers crowns of her own at one point; they are poorly done, but Vazrah wears them with pride, twisting them around her horns in a floral filigree. 

Vazrah returns Josephine to her quarters, grinning idiotically when she bows slightly to kiss the ambassador’s slender hand in the most chaste and cordial manner she can muster with the sweetness of the wine coursing through her veins. Josephine says nothing, her face a flushed mess from both alcohol and emotions (or so Vazrah hopes) but gives her a courteous nod and a shy smile, closing the door behind her.

Vazrah’s spirit soars higher than the peaks of the Frostbacks. The letter sitting on her desk when she returns to her lodging seems harmless at first, until she notices the birdlike motif stamped in bloodred wax over the parchment.

Her heart plummets. She rips the letter open and Leliana’s graceful scrawl greets her like a slap in the face.

_Herald,_

_Upon some urgings from Cullen and my own misgiving, I have had my agents look into the origins of the mage who recently joined us: Bridget. There are no records of such a young woman in any Circle or orphanage in Ferelden, Orlais, or the Free Marches. It is as if she suddenly appeared out of thin air._

_I believe her arrival and the death of Divine Justinia may be connected. Cullen has concerns she may be a spy from the Imperium, as do I. Interrogations of Gereon Alexius and his cohorts have come up with nothing conclusive as they insist they don’t know who she is, but I strongly suspect she is working for this “Elder One” of the Venatori’s dark future._

_When she returns from the Storm Coast mission, I would like to have a word with her myself. I assume you consider her a friend, so I will act in accordance to your will, but do not take her lightly. She is hiding something and if it threatens the Inquisition, it must be taken care of swiftly._

_Burn this when you’ve read it._

_Leliana._

Flames dance on Vazrah’s fingertips as she asks the inferno within to consume the letter. The ashes fall to the floorboards and stain the wood with dark soot. She sits on the edge of her bed and stares at the portrait of Andraste someone had hung up without her permission, feeling like the ancient prophetess was staring at her with those burning eyes of hers. A childish desire to rip the portrait in half and set it on fire is overwhelming. Vazrah ignores it as best she could, lowering her head against her hands and chewing on a fingernail. Part of her tells her to leave the Inquisition; the part of her that speaks in Shokrakar’s voice and is usually right. But she can’t. She _can’t_. She has to stay, even though none of this shit should be happening, and play the part everyone has thrusted upon her so eagerly. 

But she will not betray those she cares about unless there is significant cause. The world is already divided enough as it is. She will not add to the chaos because of baseless speculation. 

Whatever Bridget’s true story is, Vazrah will let the girl tell it on her own time, and there is no way in hell that Leliana is going to be allowed to force it out of her. She knows how it feels to be chained up and spat upon without the ability to defend herself. It is how she began her role in the Inquisition, after all—as the suspect and scapegoat for something she has yet to remember.

The wait for her companions to return from the Storm Coast is going to be agonizing.


	9. bear's den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so this will be the last upload for awhile because life sucks and i haven't gotten much written after this. this was my baby for like 3 months and i spent nearly every day working on it and i need a break despite how fun it's been lmao. plus yeah things are just super busy for me irl.
> 
> but this is like....my favorite chapter, because i spoiled the fuck outta myself. and also worked out some personal issues lmao but that's what this fic is for.
> 
> anyway there's a scene. you'll know it when you get to it. it wasn't supposed to happen but then i listened to fortress by bear's den and was so overwhelmed with "holy shit this is a blackwall song" that i rewrote the scene and made it into what it is now. go listen to that song. right now. and have it playing when the scene pops up.
> 
> (i've also got a bridgewall playlist and a bridgewall pinterest aesthetic but i'm too shy to share that just yet asijdavjksfgv)
> 
> this fic is like a zoo with all the animal characters i'll be creating. it's great. every good fantasy needs copious amounts of plot important animals. inquisition really should have given us a dog companion i'm still bitter about that.
> 
> mmmmm adds "mutual pining" to this fic's tags.................nice
> 
> oh hey if you want to scream with me about the new pokemon games or see pictures of my cat or just talk about dumb shit in particular you should add me on discord klefaeries (Chios) #0719 please i have so many headcanons about so many things and not enough people to dump them on

Blackwall nearly sighed in relief when he felt Bridget’s body sag against his back and her breathing became even. He had never been privy to a victim of Griffon Dust, unsurprisingly, but he didn’t realize the drug was that potent. Either that, or she was simply that susceptible to it. He was grateful she had decided to pass out—the dilated pupils and slurred speech were somewhat amusing, but he also wasn’t entirely certain how to treat the effects other than sleeping it off like one would for a hangover.

The problem Blackwall faced now was finding suitable shelter. He had an idea of where to go but it would be difficult with an unconscious girl on his back considering all the rocks. Most importantly, it was a spot he did not think he would ever return to and the thought of standing there once again made a bitter taste spread across his tongue.

_Everything will be fine as long as she doesn’t find ‘that.’_

“You seem to know where you’re going,” Hope chirped from atop his helmet as Blackwall’s steps fell into a determined gait, eyes trained straight ahead. 

“I’ve been here before,” Blackwall admitted slowly, figuring there wasn’t any harm in being honest about that much. “Years ago. The abandoned camps we’re looking for are new, but I know how to get to an old Warden outpost that myself and some other Wardens once used. It’s past that ravine and up the valley beyond it, on one of the cliffs that overlooks the sea.”

“Ah. It’s why you knew to follow the coast rather than travel inland.”

“You are correct.”

Silence drifted between them, accompanied by the soft pittering of rain and an occasional gull crying out in the distance. Blackwall had never really spoken to the dragon without Bridget being conscious and present. It felt strange without her. Wrong, even. While he still didn’t truly understand what Hope was (he wasn’t sure Bridget did either) he knew that the two were inextricably connected and he had no right to be so familiar with the curious spirit-like being. 

Hell, he had no right to be on this mission with Bridget after the catastrophe that was his own wild idiocracy. He had pushed too far, egged on by the actions of the person who she had become in the dark future. And while she claimed everything was well and good between them (after Blackwall had _shrewdly_ mentioned her bout of avoiding him; not one of his finest moments, he blatantly admitted), it didn’t stop the shadows of guilt from sinking their claws into him.

Her flustered reactions in regards to his bastardization of flirting had given him a semblance of hope. Blackwall couldn’t allow himself to get presumptuous. He should have never pulled that crap in the first place.

Even if, deep down, he had enjoyed it immensely.

“Hrnghghgh...wha…”

A sudden snort and her body jerking on his back alerted Blackwall to Bridget’s abrupt awakening. 

“That was a short-lived nap,” he commented dryly as he maneuvered around a fallen tree that was blocking most of the path, forcing him to go ankle deep in a small stream that he knew connected to the larger river up north. It also happened to be prime bear territory. With luck, they wouldn’t come across any.

“I saw...the storm,” Bridget slurred quietly and reverently, waving her hands in front of his face. A very out of place giggle left her mouth. “It was a giant person with lightning for eyes. It told me a new spell. Watch!”

“Wait, Bridget, I don’t think—”

Hope’s warning came too late. 

Bridget punched a fist forward past Blackwall’s face and let out a garbled cheer. 

A shock went through his entire body as electricity crackled from her hand and shot out into the air, leaping to the ground. He halted, quite literally stunned, and a flash of lightning struck down from the sky, meeting the magic she had thrown forth. 

The air crackled as the electricity shuddered and stretched and formed into two beastial figures, and the lightning dissipated into a strange and dark fog-like substance that looked like a black storm cloud come to life. Pinpricks of glowing blue light formed into a set of eyes on each of the beasts that gazed at Blackwall with a terrifying intelligence. They were wolves, he realized when the two creatures sat back on their haunches. Their gloomy fur rippled with lightning and they were easily twice as large as any normal wolf. Blackwall would have cursed out loud in astonishment if he could talk but the spell the dazed Bridget had set off was making it hard to think straight as remnants of electricity fizzled out from his body. In fact, he felt entirely numb, like he had hit his funny bone only his whole body reacted to that weird paralysis. 

“Aha! Success!” Bridget suddenly scrambled off from his back and being that he still couldn’t really move, he couldn’t help her, and she ended up falling onto the muddy ground, landing on her butt. Where she remained. Swaying dizzily and grinning dopily with saucer-wide pupils.

Hope sighed from atop Blackwall’s helmet. She leaned over, her tiny serpentine head making contact with his forehead, and the paralyzing sensation immediately vanished from his limbs. “I’m so sorry, Blackwall. It seems she can’t really control her magic while...under the influence.”

“S’fine,” he coughed out, shaking his legs and arms as feeling returned to them. “She didn’t mean to.”

“Hey. Heeeeey. Look what I made. I call them thunder wolves.” Bridget snickered and made an odd gesture with her hands, thumbs and forefingers pointing at the enchanted beasts enthusiastically. “Apparently being high lets your magic talk to you and you learn new tricks. Aw, hell, you’re all rainbow-y again,” she deadpanned as stared at Blackwall with unsteady eyes before turning her attention to Hope and busting out in crude, boisterous laughter. “A-and you’re a squirrel! A squirrel with scales! Oh god I am so high right now.” The cheer vanished instantly and she flopped onto her back like she had upon her initial ingestion of the Griffon Dust, groaning and hiding her eyes with her hands.

The two wolves instantly trotted over to her, snuffling at her with worried whines that echoed with a timbre like thunder rolling in the distance. When they had passed Blackwall, his skin tingled with that same paralyzing electricity as before.

“Oh yeah. This is Gale and Tempest. I don’t know which is which. The storm told me to make them. They’re like my familiars—OH MY GOD I AM CALEB FUCKING WIDOGAST.” She shot up to a sitting position with a giddy grin, though clearly the sudden movement was not the brightest idea judging by how she wobbled precariously and grabbed hold of both of the wolves, who shuffled close to her in order to keep her steady.

“I don’t know who that is,” Blackwall managed to get in before she started to speak once more, her words coming out at such an incredibly fast rate that it was somewhat difficult to keep up with it all.

“Wait, Hope is kind of like my Frumpkin, so I was already Caleb. And my magic isn’t all about fire. But we’re both sad and dirty and have pasts full of dark secrets so I’m _totally_ Caleb. But am I a wizard? Coming to Thedas gave me my magic so maybe sorcerer is more accurate. Wait, no warlock may work better...HEY YO, STORM, ARE YOU MY PATRON?” She shouted the question to the sky, arms held up in a venerating manner as she stared at the gloomy mess of fog and clouds. 

Nothing happened. 

Blackwall was very confused and had no idea what she was talking about.

She visibly deflated, slumping against one of the thunder wolves dramatically. “Whatever. I’m still Caleb. Hey, hey, Blackwall.” Her voice lowered to an almost...seductive tone, if Blackwall really wanted to allow his mind to go that far. He mentally berated himself the moment he thought it.

“Er...yes?” He cleared his throat roughly, avoiding her dilated, frenzied stare.

“Will you be the Taliesin Jaffe to my Liam O’Brien?” she asked, batting her eyelashes sultrily. 

“...pardon?”

He was even more confused than before. He figured it was something from her old world but what it could mean, Blackwall didn’t have a clue. Judging by the way Hope just stared at her with an unreadable expression...the dragon had no idea what was going on either.

“Bah. Never mind. If I explained, you’d be even more confused.” 

She blew a raspberry at him with a childlike immaturity, the sudden burst of sensuality gone as if it had never been there in the first place. She patted one of the wolves on its head and its thundercloud tail wagged to and fro, a hind leg thumping against the ground happily. “Anyway, these guys have your scent memorized now and know that you are a good dude, so that’s pretty neat and oh my god there’s a giant fuzzy mushroom coming at us.”

The two wolves growled low in their throats, noses pointed at to where Bridget was staring, hackles raised and fangs bared. Blackwall spun around and the massive figure of a black-furred bear larger than the magical wolves put together was lumbering lazily towards them, emerging from the pine trees with a monstrous rumbling growl of its own that shook him to the core. 

“Maybe it’s a friendly mushroom!” Bridget bounced excitedly, oblivious to the tense atmosphere that was settling between everyone. “I should go say hello!” She made a movement as to get to her feet (though considering how unsteady and light-headed the Griffon Dust had made her, it wasn’t much of a success) and Blackwall grabbed her upper arm, preventing her from getting any further.

“Maker’s breath. Bridget, that’s a bloody bear, not a mushroom,” he deadpanned as he stood in front of her, drawing his blade and shield. The chore of facing a bear as large at the one that was coming at them, its pace having quickened when it noticed the two wolves, was not his idea of a good time. Especially when he was down a mage, considering neither he nor Hope really trusted Bridget to perform magic with the drug still affecting her so.

“Oh. Maybe it’s a friendly bear and I should still go say hello?”

“Bridget, sweetheart,” Hope said from atop Blackwall’s helmet in a very strained voice that was clearly holding back exasperated laughter, “it is most certainly not a friendly bear, and if you go say hello it will try to eat you.”

“Try me, bitch!” Bridget whooped, cracking her knuckles in a way that Blackwall supposed was intended to be intimidating, but it took her three times to get her hands to meet one another, so it wasn’t much of a triumph at all.

When she was sober and they were somewhere warm and dry, he was certain this would be an amusing memory.

But for now, it was better to focus on not becoming dinner.

“Stay behind me and don’t use any magic,” he warned in a low and steady voice as the bear slogged through the mud and muck, close enough that he could see the whites of its eyes and the scars mottling its battleworn face. It smelled horrid; like rotten meat and wet fur that had been left in an enclosed room for a decade. He almost coughed from the putrid aroma, eyes watering more than the rain that was starting to come down a bit harder.

“Ehhhhhhh…” Bridget vocalized from behind him as the wolves fanned out to his sides, and he felt electricity crackling in the air between him and the enchanted beasts. “I would rather not let you fight a furry mushroom while I’m hearing colors and smelling words. Let’s just run away. Gale, Tempest...do the thing!”

“What in Andraste’s name are you—”

The two wolves at his side rushed in front of him at the same time the bear charged with a harrowing roar. He watched in awe as they...melded together, the way two clouds would fold into one another on a windy day, growing to a size that was far larger than a purebred Ferelden Forder or even the breed of horses that the qunari hordes used. The giant wolf tipped its head back and let out a thunderous howl that shook the trees around them and somewhere off in the distance, he saw lightning strike the sea out of the corner of his eyes. The bear skidded to a stop, head perked and ears flattened as it blustered a strange cry of confusion and unease.

Blackwall certainly wasn’t expecting what happened next.

A strong gust of wind swirled around him and he was literally swept up off his feet (causing him to make a very undignified noise) and deposited him on the wolf’s back. A giggling Bridget was dropped practically into his lap only moments later, wriggling blissfully as she patted the surprisingly soft fur. Considering the manner in which it looked like a storm cloud complete with lightning streaking through it, he expected it to be much more coarse. He wouldn’t mind a new coat or a blanket made out of the plush material, though he would never vocalize the want out loud.

“Take us somewhere safe,” Bridget commanded the giant wolf with a surprisingly clear and lucid air of authority.

Below him, Blackwall felt powerful muscles rippling as the creature of pure magic moved. It was like riding a bolt of lightning—it was similar to the teleportation spell and yet so utterly alien a sensation that he wasn’t quite sure what happened. 

He heard air hissing in his ear. He felt the beast leap and race forward. He heard the bear let out another bellow that was almost human in its confusion. And then suddenly they were somewhere else, his body tingling with the leftover magic as the wolf literally dissolved out from under him, turning into wisps of black fog with bright blue sparks running through it. The material dissipated into the rain like dust in the wind, leaving him standing on solid ground with Bridget leaning against him looking slightly pale and far more controlled than before, the dilation in her eyes not as severe.

“Hot damn,” she wheezed as she clutched his arm to steady herself, squeezing her eyes shut. “Note to self: don’t do that kind of spell when high. It takes a lot out of you. But good news, I think the weird powder is finally wearing off—just kidding, you’ve still got sparkly unicorns having a dance off in your beard.” She stared intently at his face and Blackwall cleared his throat awkwardly, turning away to survey their new surroundings.

He was pleasantly surprised at what he saw.

Somehow, Bridget’s lupine new spell had taken them right to the old Warden outpost that he had mentioned to Hope (who had at last left the perch on his head and settled onto Bridget’s shoulder). It looked just as he remembered; a large wooden building, with much more moss and warped boards than the last time he had been there, and the windows were now boarded up. There was a new fire pit just a ways in front of the door but it showed signs of not being used in quite some time. The basalt cliff the building was built on towered over the Waking Sea and gave whomever was standing at the edge a grand view of the coast and the forest, making it a perfect spot to keep an eye on things. 

There was a small pathway that led down to a craggy outcrop perfectly nestled within the cliff. Blackwall knew what would be there. He avoided even so much as a glance towards the area.

“Did you know this was here?” he asked Bridget just as she let go of his arm, seeming to be able to stand up straight without any wobbling at last.

“Not really…” She shook her head. “I think the storm did, though. Maybe that’s why the spell brought us here.”

“Hm. Well, this is where I intended for us to camp out for the night.” He knocked loudly on the door, one hand poised defensively above the hilt of his sword. There was no answer and he heard nothing coming from inside. An experimental push on the door handle confirmed it to be unlocked and so Blackwall cautiously peeked his head inside, positioning his body between the frame and Bridget as he looked around.

It was dark inside, being that the windows were boarded up and the light from the doorway was minuscule due to the lack of sun. The fireplace was full of ash and soot. It smelled musty and slightly damp. Clearly, it had been some time since anyone, Warden or otherwise, had used the outpost.

“It’s clear,” Blackwall announced and Bridget immediately bolted inside, flopping onto the bed tucked into the corner. A plume of dust rose up the moment her body made contact with the straw mattress and she fell into an erratic coughing fit. She gave him a shaky thumbs up after the tenth cough or so, pounding at her chest.

“A-ack, shit, I hope that’s not more weird hallucinogens stuff…”

“I wager it’s just normal dust and not of the Grey Warden variety,” he couldn’t help but chuckle as he scooped as much ash from the fire place as he could, tossing some of the very dry and very cracked logs that were stacked next to it into the hearth. The fire started easily and the room was immediately washed in a warm amber glow.

It was quite sparse compared to the last time Blackwall had been in the outpost. There were no decorations or supplies; just the one bed, the fireplace, a desk, and a vast empty room full of dirt and mildew. There was a new door connected to the wall that he distinctly remembered not being present all those years ago—but when he tried to open it, it wouldn’t even budge. A faint humming glow surrounded the knob when his hand grabbed onto it, warm and prickly to the touch.

_A locking spell? What in Andraste’s name could this be for? Who put this door here? Was it a Warden, or…?_

A very loud rumbling growl interrupted Blackwall from his thoughts. For a moment he panicked, thinking the damn bear had somehow followed them, and jerked his head to the menacing sound.

Bridget sat on the bed with a chagrined expression and flushed cheeks, averting her eyes. “...welp, Thedas drugs give you the munchies just as easily as other drugs. Good to know,” she mumbled as her stomach rumbled again. 

“You _did_ just perform some high-level magic,” Hope reminded her as Blackwall dug into his (very wet) rucksack, pulling out packages of smoke venison jerky, bread, hard cheese, and two wineskins. “Griffon Dust aside, you expelled a lot of energy and need to eat something.”

Bridget noticed Blackwall dividing the food into portions and flailed her hands about. He wordlessly dropped her share into her expectant hands and she nodded her thanks, enthusiastically tearing into the jerky not unlike the wolves she had created out of magic. “Oh good, the rainbows and unicorns are finally starting to disappear,” she exclaimed when she glanced up at him, with eyes that were almost completely back to normal.

“I suppose there are worse things you can see when on Griffon Dust,” Blackwall grunted as he also fished out the bundle he had taken from the Warden camp before the whole debacle had begun. 

It was wrapped in leather, weighed about as much as a bottle of whiskey, and in an odd rectangular shape. He began to carefully peel the layers of leather away one by one, hoping whatever was inside wasn’t ruined by being left out in the elements. He doubted it was something incredibly important if the Warden it had belonged to had forgotten about it in the rain, however.

Those suspicions were confirmed when he pulled off the final leather wrapping away, revealing what was hidden underneath, and the groan Blackwall let out was loud enough to wake a slumbering Archdemon.

“Hah! That’s Varric’s porn book!” Bridget practically yelled as she lurched forward off of the bed, plucking the book from his hands the way a vulture goes after carrion. Sure enough, the name Varric Tethras was emblazoned on the side in bold and garish golden letters. On the cover were two ambiguous figures cloaked in shadow sharing an embrace, placed beneath the innocent title of _Swords and Shields_. She thumbed through the pages with a gleefully wicked smirk. “I cannot wait to give him so much shit about this. He swears it’s the worst thing he’s ever written. _I’ll_ be the judge of that.”

“I suppose it would be too much to ask for something useful at the first location we check,” Blackwall admitted with a sigh, taking a swig out of his wineskin sullenly and biting down on a piece of cheese. 

He then realized there was only one bed.

Only as opposed to the cabin in the Hinterlands, there was no chair in front of the fire for him to sleep in; just a cold and damp floor. 

_I’ve slept in worse places before, and she deserves the bed more than I do._

“Wow, five pages in and they’re already doing it. Just use the word cock instead of ‘his member,’ Varric. It’s not that hard. ...well, I suppose the dick itself is.”

Blackwall choked on the piece of cheese that he had been in the middle of eating.

“I suggest refraining from describing what’s happening in the smutty book while people are eating,” Hope pointed out with a strained chuckle. Bridget just shrugged from where she lay on the bed, holding the book over her face. 

“Maybe I just wanted to read everyone a bedtime story,” she answered with complete nonchalance.

“I’m going to survey the area around the outpost just to make sure there’s nothing or no one that will try to kill us in our sleep,” Blackwall announced in a strained tone, rushing towards the door like the room was on fire. When he stepped out into the cold and rainy air it was nearly a blessing for the heat that was rising in his face.

He _really_ didn’t need the certain thoughts that were currently racing through his mind. “Damned dwarf,” he muttered acidly to himself as he stomped down the slope, rubbing his forehead. “Damned Wardens. Out of all the things in the world that could have been in those tents, why in Andraste's name did it have to be Griffon Dust _and_ Varric’s smutty literature?”

He returned from his impromptu examination of the perimeter—with nothing to report other than some rams that had run the moment they spotted him—fifteen minutes later, heart beating at a normal rate and mind cleared of rather...interesting images. 

When Blackwall stepped back into the outpost, Bridget was snoring softly on the bed with her limbs splayed out and the book resting atop her stomach. Hope was curled up next to her. He crept towards her slowly so as to not make the floorboards creak, realizing he should have packed blankets or something similar. At least the fire was still going strong and the mostly empty room was warm enough.

“You did well today,” Blackwall intoned softly as he lifted the book from her person, resisting a sudden and strong urge to brush a few stray strands of hair out of her face. His hand nearly betrayed him, getting so far as to hover above her cheek, before he realized what he was doing and jerked his body away. 

Bridget mumbled something incoherent at the noise of his wet boots squeaking on the floorboards but otherwise remained asleep, shifting slightly. Blackwall let out a relieved sigh through gritted teeth and sat down near the fire, positioning the rucksack so that it was propped up against his back. It would make for a decent enough pillow. He briefly considered tossing the book into the fire but decided against it; he had actually enjoyed reading _Hard in Hightown_ and was curious about this so-called “worst” of Varric’s writings.

Blackwall immediately regretted his decision when he got to page five and the unsavory imaginings from before came back to haunt him. 

He didn’t sleep very well that night.

\---

Bridget’s dreams were full of rainbows, unicorns, giant mushrooms that spoke with a cowboy accent, and seas of mac and cheese that she was not allowed to swim in. When she awoke, it was to the sound of thunder rumbling gently overhead and the soft pitter patter of rain on a wooden roof. The crick in her neck mocked her lack of a pillow as she groaned and stretched, rubbing her face in an attempt to wipe away the remnants of sleep from her expression.

There was a larger fire than before in the hearth, which made the room considerably more warm and pleasant. _Swords and Shields _lay on the scratched up desk next to the bed and on the cover was a hastily scribbled note on a piece of parchment: _Went fishing for breakfast. Might be back before you wake up. Blackwall.___

__“Good morning,” Hope greeted her from her place in front of the fire, where she sat in a cat loaf practically sunning herself in front of the flames. “Did you sleep well?”_ _

__Bridget took a giant gulp of the heavily watered down wine in the wineskin, which still tasted like ass but it was the only thing to drink. She grimaced and forced herself to swallow it despite the way it made her eyes water. “Considering how I was high as fuck yesterday? Pretty good. Now all I have to do is get blackout drunk and sing karaoke topless on a table and my dream of being Thedas’ number one helot will be fulfilled.”_ _

__The sense of laughter swelled in Bridget’s chest, confirming Hope had reopened their bond. She’d been too out of it with the Griffon Dust to realize how much she had missed its kind affection and the way it bloomed like a flower within her heart. When she slid off the bed her legs screamed in protest, the muscles begging her to be a lazy slob and do nothing for the next three years. She winced, massaging her thighs. “We walked a lot yesterday, didn’t we? My body is still not used to a non-sedentary life I guess, and all these damn hills and rocks here don’t help. Ugh.”_ _

__She grabbed Varric’s novel (which she had only gotten so far as the second chapter when she had passed out) and slipped it into the folds of her cloak. Bridget was fairly certain she had fallen asleep while holding it, but Blackwall had probably just put it on the desk so she didn’t drool on it or something._ _

__“I don’t suppose you noticed this door when we arrived?” Hope trotted over to said door, which Bridget not definitely had not noticed at al. She shook her head no as she shuffled over to it, ignoring the burn in her calves. “It’s got a spell on it to keep it locked, and I can sense something very strange inside. Almost like…”_ _

__The dragon shook her own head, blinking rapidly. “No, I’m sure I am mistaken. But still, it’s quite curious. I wonder what could be inside. Shall we try to break the spell?”_ _

__“Sure, let me just roll for dexterity,” Bridget joked. Over their restored bond she began to send the entirety of her Dungeons and Dragons knowledge and references over to Hope in a hopefully concisely constructed manner that made sense as she fiddled with the door knob, concentrating on the threads of magic in the runes that kept it enchanted and sealed._ _

__Thirty seconds later, Hope’s musical voice rang out with an excited gasp. “Oh! I _am_ like Frumpkin! And qunari are essentially tieflings without tails.” Her own tail swished back and forth merrily. “Your world has such intriguing ways of storytelling. I think I like this ‘druid’ class the most.”_ _

__“Yeah, everyone here would shit themselves if they knew about movies and television and video games and various other technology.” Bridget flicked a particularly strong wave of electricity at the door and the air smelled like a ozone for a moment. She fistpumped in victory when the glowing runes dulled to nothing and disappeared from the wood, and a click could be heard on the other side of the door._ _

__The door swung open with ease and Bridget stepped inside. A set of wooden stairs led down to a dirt floor, reminiscent of a root cellar in a colonial-style home. She snapped her fingers and orbs of lightning danced on the tips before shooting off into the corners of the subterranean room, alighting everything in a bright bluish-white sheen—a useful yet simple trick the storm had taught her during her dust coma. It reminded her of the tacky neon signs in every 80’s movie bar scene._ _

__Hope fluttered up to her shoulder as Bridget descended down the steps. It smelled earthy and damp, like mushrooms. When she turned the corner two things caught her attention. One was a very large wooden chest with a Warden emblem painted on the front. The other was a pedestal of sorts, with a shallow basin at the top._ _

__Nestled within a mess of straw and grass and other dried vegetation was an egg._ _

__Bridget heard Hope’s breath catch as she approached the pedestal. The egg was big, like an ostrich’s, and had a creamy white shell with brown speckles running along the smooth surface. She could feel... _something_ pulsating from the egg. Magic? _ _

___No, not just magic…the thing inside the egg was alive._ _ _

__“If that is what I think it is, then we have just made the discovery of the century,” Hope whispered in an awestruck voice as she hopped onto the pedestal and leaned her head against the egg’s shell, closing her eyes. She seemed to be listening intently for something._ _

__Bridget turned her attention to the big chest next to the pedestal. There were no locks or spells on it and the top popped off with a little muscle work. Inside was a heap of this and that; a glass vial filled with something red, a leather scroll case, a silver chalice whose varnish was incredibly beat up, a faded Grey Warden flag that had been chewed up by something, half a dozen pouches not unlike the one that had contained the Griffon Dust, some pieces of broken armor, and resting on top of it all a slip of parchment folded in two._ _

__She grabbed it before she could stop herself. Unfolding the paper, she was met with refined yet unsteady handwriting._ _

___To whoever holds this letter, I pray you are a fellow Warden, or at best someone who will honor my request._ _ _

___I must go where my love and my son cannot follow. I seek a way to stop the Calling and save my brethren from the taint._ _ _

___The items in this chest have no use to me anymore. Feel free to do whatever you will with them. The only thing I ask is to protect the egg. I have enchanted it with too many spells to count to ensure its safety and halt its growth until the time is right, but if you have breached the seals on the door I placed, then the threads of the magic will begin to unwind. It was the only thing I could do at the time of writing this._ _ _

___The egg that lies before you is a griffon egg. I could scarcely believe it myself when my love and I discovered it while we hid away from the world and raised our son. The beasts were said to have died out during the Exalted Age when the Blight devastated their numbers. The little one that awaits in that egg could be the key to restoring the Order’s most valued companions._ _ _

___I confess to not know when the egg will hatch. The griffon chooses the Warden, not the other way around. Perhaps the beast inside may never hatch if it never comes into contact with someone it deems worthy._ _ _

___But if you have read this far and your mind is not filled with the temptations of gold and power this egg could possibly bring, then I believe there is still a chance. Protect the egg, raise the little one into a fearsome and courageous warrior, and I will come to you when I can to thank you for indulging me with such an impossible task. I cannot force you, obviously, but I truly hope you are an honest person who will find it in your heart to do what is good and right._ _ _

___May Mythal guide you on the path of honor and justice._ _ _

___Warden-Commander Soren Mahariel._ _ _

__The letter dropped onto the floor from Bridget’s hands when she finished reading, her mind reeling. “Soren Mahariel. _Soren Mahariel_. That’s the Hero of the Fifth Blight!” she blurted out as she spun around, staring at the egg with wide eyes. “I remember reading about him when we came to Haven! He’s a Dalish mage who joined the Wardens when darkspawn attacked his clan during the Blight. No one’s heard from him in years.”_ _

__

__“I was right,” Hope hummed in content as she rubbed her face against the egg, wings quivering. “I sensed the presence of a griffon but it had been so long that I wasn’t entirely sure. We must honor the Warden’s request. This world has been far duller since the griffons died.”_ _

__“Blackwall is going to go insane.” Bridget placed a timid hand against the egg, careful not to apply any pressure on it. It was warm and she swore she felt it move just for a second. “Do you think it’s okay if I carry it upstairs?”_ _

__

__“As long as you handle it with care. Griffon eggs aren’t as fragile as a chickens, but who knows the effect all this stimulation will have.” Hope moved away from the egg as Bridget gingerly cupped her hands underneath it and lifted it up. It was heavier than it looked; something was most definitely in there._ _

__She cradled it against her chest and made her way up the steps. She placed it on the bed, pulling her cloak off and creating a makeshift nest out of the fabric, wrapping it around the egg and ensuring that it was safe and secure._ _

__Blackwall still hadn’t returned. Bridget figured the egg would be safe for a few minutes while she went outside to see if she could figure out where he was supposedly fishing, considering it had spent who knows how long in a dank cellar, but she still hesitated when her hand went to the door. Hope sensed her trepidation and placed herself at the egg’s side, looking like a little guard squirrel with scales as her ears perked and her head was held high._ _

__“I’ll stay here. I cannot speak to the hatchling while it’s still in the egg but I can comfort it with my presence. No doubt it’s confused now that the magic that was used to keep it safe is gone.”_ _

__“Thanks, Hope. The letter said griffons choose their Wardens or whatever but uh...you should totally be Blackwall’s hype man. Tell it how cool he is. And how shockingly tolerant he can be when my dumb ass accidentally gets high on fantasy drugs.”_ _

__The memory of being slung onto his back like a sack of potatoes burned in her mind. As did all the stupid shit she had said._ _

__Bridget rushed out of the building before Hope could catch onto some of the more rather salacious thoughts that began to pop up like uninvited guests but chances are the dragon was aware of them the moment they appeared._ _

__It was decidedly more chilly without her cloak and also more wet, considering it was raining a little harder than before. Luckily the pine trees were fairly thick and did a decent job of shielding her from the rain as she glanced around the cliff, doing her damndest to ignore the siren song of the sea._ _

__Even in this new world where she was actually worth something, those destructive whispers still plagued her._ _

__She felt inexplicably drawn to the little path to the side of the building and went down a narrow outlet that cut into the cliff. There were small crumbling dwarven statues and what looked like the remains of another cabin, but much smaller judging by what was left. Scattered bones littered the ground, skulls and rib cages sunken into the moss and mud. A couple of rusty swords leaned against a boulder and when Bridget peered closely at them, she saw griffon designs on the once silver hilts. But what caught her attention the most was the glint of something half-buried in the mud. She bent down and pulled the thing out; it made a gross squelching noise as it broke free of its swampy prison._ _

__She held it out into the rain so that the mud would get washed off. It was crafted of a dark metal and beautifully decorated, with two griffons engraved that stood back-to-back and carried blades in their beaks. It reminded Bridget of the badge that Blackwall had been carrying around when he was conscripting in the Hinterlands, only it was much finer and larger. It was obviously a Grey Warden token of some sort and on top of the treasure trove of the weird cellar, Bridget was quite pleased with her findings._ _

__“I’m like an archaeologist for Grey Wardens! Blackwall’s seriously going to lose his mind.”_ _

__“And why is that?”_ _

__Bridget shrieked slightly and nearly dropped the Warden artifact at the gruff sound of Blackwall’s voice. She spun around to see him standing at the top of the slope with a large fish that was incredibly salmon-like tied to his shield. Even with the distance between them the white pallor of his skin was evident the moment Blackwall’s eyes darted to what she had in her hand. He rushed down the slope like a bear coming in for a kill, nostrils flaring and a distinct look of fear etched into his face._ _

__“Where did you—how did—that’s…” Blackwall didn’t move to take it from her hands but Bridget somehow sensed that it was all he wanted to do. His voice was thick with something she couldn’t quite discern and the shield slipped from his grasp onto the ground, the fish strapped to it flopping weakly._ _

__“I found it,” Bridget replied quietly, gesturing to the skeletal remains behind her. She didn’t like the dark shadows that flashed across his face like lightning._ _

__“...that’s the Warden-Constable’s badge,” Blackwall breathed and he looked like a dragon had punched him in the gut. His chest began to rise and fall with a speed she recognized very well and the hitch in his voice was another telling sign of the chaos in his mind._ _

__“That’s...your badge, then. That’s your official title, right?” Bridget swallowed nervously as rain dripped into her eyes and another bout of thunder rumbled pleasantly in the distance. Blackwall was frozen in place and with how wide and terrified his eyes were, she was reminded of a deer in headlights. “Blackwall?” she said his name as kindly as she could, placing her free hand on his arm. He jerked at her touch, but did not pull away. She placed the item in his hand and the way his fingers closed around it so tightly and desperately was somehow sad, but she didn’t know why._ _

__They stood there in silent for some time, Blackwall’s breathing slowly evening out, as the rain continued fall all around them. His hair, normally slicked back and groomed decently enough, was absolutely soaked—beard included. Bridget hated herself for a hot moment for the lewd images that conjured themselves briefly before she bade them away as quickly as they had come._ _

__“I was here once, long ago, with other Wardens.” Blackwall closed his eyes as he squeezed the badge so tightly Bridget was afraid the edges would somehow pierce his gloves. “We were ambushed by darkspawn. It was during the Blight, and there were many Deep Roads entrances around. The one who recruited me to the Wardens...he died, taking a blow that was meant for me. His death was different compared to the others I’d witnessed. It...changed me.”_ _

__“Oh...Blackwall…” She wanted to throw her arms around him and pull him close. But she didn’t want to alarm him or do something he wasn’t comfortable with—_ _

__-—the memory of how he held her at Redcliffe sparked to life and begged her to do it, and she wanted to scream with how badly she wanted to feel him in her arms—_ _

__—and so she merely edged closer, giving his arm a firm squeeze with biting on the insides of her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”_ _

__“No one knows. I was the only survivor.” He let out a bitter scoff, opening his eyes once more and gazing at her with such an intensity that a shiver went up and down her spine. “I don’t know what he saw in me. He recruited me at a tavern. I was drunk, stopped some bastards from roughing up a serving girl, but only because I wanted more ale. And yet he looked and me and thought ‘I want him for the Wardens.’ I’ll never know why, because he died in my place.”_ _

__“Maybe because he saw someone good and willing to fight for what’s right,” Bridget said gently. On a whim she decided to risk whatever precarious link that was between them and moved her hand up his arm and to his cheek, resting on the precipice between beard and skin. He felt clammy beneath her fingers. A strange sort of thrill began in her toes and traveled through every nerve within her when his free hand came to a shaky rest atop of the one she had against his face._ _

___This has such shoujo vibes right now that I think my heart is going to explode._ _ _

__“But I’m not.” Despite the acidity in his tone, Blackwall leaned into her touch. Bridget’s heart forgot how to beat for a moment and she sucked in a gasp when he inched closer to her, forehead nearly touching her own. “You can’t afford to think I’m special, Bridget. I’m just a soldier, like any other, and I make mistakes. I’ve done...things that I’m still trying to run from, even now. I’m not worthy of you.”_ _

__She could feel his breath fanning against her skin, warm and gentle like a summer breeze. Inwardly she was panicking—was this actually happening? It wasn’t just a dream from the last of the Griffon Dust in her body, right? Because even though she truly cared for him, if Blackwall pulled out some kind of _Pride and Prejudice_ confession, Bridget would quite literally cease to exist. She wasn’t ready. Or maybe she was? She didn’t know. Everything was coiled tightly at the bottom of her stomach, hot and cold and making it hard to swallow or even talk._ _

__“No one ever said you had to be perfect.”_ _

__It was something she had wanted someone else to say to her so many times, over and over again, repeating like a broken record. There was a sense of completeness in saying it to Blackwall. It felt _right_._ _

__“You’re trying. It’s all any of us can really do. But unlike most people, you have something to show for all your efforts.” Bridget was surprised at how calm and steady her voice was; impressed, even, because it was the complete opposite of the anarchy within. She managed to hold his eyes with her own, bringing her other hand to rest on his other cheek so that she had his face within her grasp._ _

__An odd sense of deja vu passed through her for a moment, accompanied with a far off voice that whispered for her to close the distance between them._ _

__She ignored it. She couldn’t do that just yet._ _

__“There’s a lot I haven’t told you. I’ve said this before. And I _will_ tell you; I swear this to you right here and now.” Bridget’s lips quivered and her legs felt weak, the tense ball in her stomach squeezing even tighter. “But I want you to know that I’m not a good person and if anyone is unworthy of _anything_ , it’s me. We can never run from our pasts but we shouldn’t let them define us. This world has taught me so much, and you’ve been the center of it. Whatever we are—whatever you want from me, whatever I want from you...there’s something good in that, and it’s enough for me.”_ _

__“I…” Blackwall appeared to be at a loss for words. Before Bridget could start to speak again she was suddenly pulled against his chest, his arms firm around her waist. He smelled like the sea. “Forgive me for being selfish,” he whispered hoarsely into her ear as she found herself returning the embrace, relishing in the sense of Blackwall surrounding her. “There are things I have not told you yet either, because I am terrified of what will come of it. So please, let me be selfish just a little longer...let me be the Blackwall you think I am for just a little longer.”_ _

__It was a strange choice of words but Bridget didn’t really care. She clung to Blackwall the way vines clung to crumbling ruins, blood rushing in her ears and tongue struggling to function._ _

___This is enough. For now, this is more than enough. Please don’t let this end. Please._ _ _

__“Can I ask you something?” she murmured against his chest, hearing the way his heart thudded evenly like the bass of a guitar, strumming resolute notes sweeter than any choir of angels could spit out._ _

__“Anything.” His chest rumbled when he replied, tickling her cheek. “Though I confess I may be unable to answer it depending on what it is.”_ _

__“What was the name of the man who died for you?” Bridget glanced up at him and saw that rabbit-like look in Blackwall’s eyes again, like she was a wolf ready to snatch him up in her jaws. It pained her, even though she understood more than anyone else in Thedas what it was like to keep the full truth hidden in your heart, letting it fester._ _

__“...Thom.” The name left Blackwall’s lips like poison; like he was trying to expel it from his being as fast as he could. “His name was Thom.” His embrace tightened and Bridget felt like he was the wolf now (or bear, if she wanted to be more accurate) and she was the rabbit being swallowed up by his presence. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into him even more, aware of nothing but the gentle downpour and the way Blackwall’s thumb began to rub slow and hesitant circles at the small of her back._ _

__“My life before I met you was full of nothing but endless battles. Maker knows I stopped having something, some _one_ , to fight for even before the Wardens found me. But now…” Blackwall’s entire body shuddered around her and the ragged breath he took sounded wet, like he was holding back the weight of the world the way he was holding back his emotions. She wanted to tell him that it was okay to let the tears fall but the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. “Now I have something I want to protect, and also someone I want to fight alongside with. And she’s standing right in front of me.”_ _

___Oh. That’s me._ _ _

__“I think you need to give Varric some pointers when it comes to writing heartfelt dialogue,” Bridget laughed breathlessly, feeling the pounding of her heart in her fingertips as she gave him a shy yet earnest smile. “That was the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me, and I wish I could match it, but right now I’m feeling so overwhelmed by all of this that I might throw up.”_ _

__She didn’t hear his response, however, because just then Hope practically screamed at her over their bond._ _

__**I know you two are having a moment, and I hate to ruin it, but the egg is hatching and I need you and Blackwall to get back here immediately!** _ _

__“U-Uh. Okay, fuck, we gotta go.” Bridget removed herself from the safety of Blackwall’s arms with much reluctance and difficulty, feeling empty when there was space between the two of them once again._ _

__The magic that had surrounded them disappeared the same time the rain slowed down to a drizzle._ _

__“What? Why?” The sheer disappointment on his face was agonizing and a flash of guilt flared up inside of her. She pushed it back to a dark corner and grabbed his hand, yanking him along._ _

__“You’ll see when we get back to the outpost. Bring the fish! We’re gonna need it! ...I think!”_ _

__When the two rushed back into the abandoned Warden outpost, faces flushed (and not just from the exertion of running) and clothes dripping wet, they were met with Hope throwing herself at them, blue eyes wide with panicked exhilaration. “I didn’t think it would hatch this quickly! I think the child inside was just too impatient to wait any longer!”_ _

__“Maker’s breath, what is _that_?” Blackwall gaped at the egg on the bed, which was quivering in the makeshift cloak nest and had cracks running through its porcelain shell. Some of the shell had already been broken through and bits of it had fallen onto the blue fabric surrounding it; the tip of something sharp and yellow was sticking out of the tiny hole._ _

__“I unlocked a door and there was an underground storage bunker with Warden things and a note from the Hero of Ferelden and this egg which is supposed to be a baby griffon,” Bridget hastily explained in one breath, kneeling down on the floor and resting her elbows on the edge of the straw mattress, staring at the egg._ _

__“A griffon. As in, the same beasts that died out centuries ago during a Blight?” Blackwall, for all the incredulity in his voice, joined her side, except he actually sat down on the floor and was tall enough that he could still see the egg just fine. At the sound of his voice, Bridget swore the cracks in the egg deepened and it wriggled even more._ _

__She didn’t answer, too engrossed with the miracle of life happening before her eyes. The sound of cracking filled the air as another piece of eggshell broke off, a little paw punching through the hole. The creature inside the egg squeaked—a strange combination of a baby bird chirping and a kitten’s mewl. Bridget leaned forward a bit more, unable to help herself, and the holes with the paw and what was now obviously the beak got larger and larger as the little beast chipped away from the inside._ _

__When the upper half of the eggshell fell away into tiny porcelain pieces, she let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding._ _

__There was a griffon hatchling a little smaller than an adult cat staring at them with large golden eyes. It had pointed ears and a feline face that tapered into a sharp yellow beak. Around the scruff of its neck were patches of still wet fur that looked thicker than the rest of its body, which was covered in a fascinating layer of alternating feathers and hair. Its wings, folded at its side, were comprised of bulky-looking feathers that quivered with viscous and egg membrane. Its paws were awkwardly large compared to its limbs and it had a lion’s tail complete with a little tuft at the end. Its feathers were a lovely shade of brown, with its wings being almost black with the faintest hint of silver streaking through them, whereas its fur was a gentle cream color that was just slightly darker than the eggshell that had protected it._ _

__Neither Blackwall nor Bridget spoke. They merely gazed at the creature as it let out a squawk that truly was a combination of an eagle’s call and a starving kitten, cocking its head curiously as its sharp golden eyes stared back at them with an eerie amount of intelligence._ _

__It noticed the fish (still strapped to Blackwall’s shield which was currently in his lap) and cried out, flapping its sodden wings and rushing off the edge of the bed. Blackwall lunged forward at the same time, catching the little beast in his hands before it could fall onto the floor. It chirped up at him, ears flicking and eyes blinking rapidly, before crawling down his arm and onto his lap, where it pounced on the fish with all of the viciousness of a newborn puppy._ _

__“Holy shit.” Bridget slapped her hands to her cheeks, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s so cute. I’m actually gonna die.”_ _

__The griffon tore into the fish with its beak and sent skin and flesh flying everywhere, gnawing on the head as it clutched the body with its massively disproportionate paws. Blackwall just sat there, stiff as a board, his arms raised slightly so that he wasn’t touching it. He watched the hatchling devour the fish (complete with growls and other cute baby animal noises) with utter awe, mouth hanging open and looking somewhat like a fish out of water himself._ _

__“This...th-this can’t be happening. This is impossible. They’re extinct. How did...where did it…” Blackwall stammered out his words, unable to create a coherent sentence._ _

__“The Hero claimed he found it when in hiding or something,” Bridget shrugged. “He didn’t say exactly where, probably just in case someone who was an asshole was going to be the one to find his cache. The note also said that griffons supposedly chose their Wardens. Maybe this little sweetie is going to choose you!”_ _

__That familiar black shadow passed over Blackwall’s face again. “But I’m not…”_ _

__“If you’re about to say you’re unworthy, I will throw nasty eggshell bits at you,” she threatened lightheartedly, even though it pained her that he still had such a mess of negativity tainting him from within. Then again...she wasn’t one to talk._ _

__The baby griffon let out a burp that seemed impossibly loud to come from such a tiny creature. The fish was nothing but bones and small bits of flesh stuck in the crevices. It shook its head and licked its paws with a pink tongue, picking out some eggshell from its fur with its beak, and leaned back on its hindquarters to stare up at Blackwall. It chirped, a high-pitched adorable noise that made Bridget scream inwardly because all she wanted to do was cuddle the damn thing._ _

__“He’s saying hello,” Hope interpreted. Bridget had almost forgotten she was there. “And he also thanks you for the food. He liked it very much.”_ _

__“Er...hello to you too, little one. You are welcome?” Blackwall swallowed as he slowly reached his hand out, holding it just above the griffon’s head. He looked like he was about to pat the downy fur between the griffon’s ears but his hand was frozen inches above with hesitation._ _

__The griffon stretched up and finished the distance between Blackwall’s hand and his little fuzzy head, cooing softly as he rubbed against the material of Blackwall’s gloves._ _

__Bridget really was going to die of cuteness. It was like watching those videos of bikers going apeshit over puppies and kittens. She needed to somehow learn how to make clothes in Thedas immediately so she could create a flannel shirt for Blackwall because her imagination just wasn’t cutting it anymore._ _

__“He wants you to give him a name,” Hope added softly._ _

__“Me?”_ _

__Blackwall looked taken aback, even as he gingerly stroked the griffon’s head with such a tender touch it was as if he feared harming the hatchling._ _

__“Are you certain?”_ _

__This was directed towards the griffon, who actually bobbed his head up and down and fluffed out the feathers of his wings as his body wriggled. He squawked and butted Blackwall’s hand affectionately, grabbing it with his two front paws and pulling himself up onto his arm. “Maker, your claws are like an alley cat’s,” Blackwall grunted as the griffon crawled and balanced across his arm and onto his shoulder, where he plopped down as if he belonged there and began to lick at his fur and feathers with a feline grace, one hawkish eye remaining open._ _

__“My vote is for Nugget,” Bridget suggested jokingly. Blackwall raised a confused eyebrow at her and Hope gave her a good natured glare. “Come on, it’s cute! He’s like a little nugget of adorableness!”_ _

__“...Garahel.” Blackwall raised his hand and gave the griffon another cautious pat, this time on its back, avoiding the wings as best he could. “That was the name of an elven Grey Warden who fought in many battles during the Blight that killed off the griffons. He was a griffon rider and accepted all walks of people, especially outcasts. He was a brave man who wasn’t afraid to sacrifice for what was right and died striking the killing blow against the Archdemon Andoral. Is it...alright if I name you Garahel?”_ _

__The griffon paused in his grooming, shaking his wings (which were finally beginning to dry and had a beautiful lustrous sheen to their feathers), and nodded his head once._ _

__“Welcome to the world, little Garahel!” Bridget cooed happily, poking Blackwall’s cheek when he remained stony faced and stoic despite the baby griffon currently rubbing up against him. “Smile, you big oaf! This is amazing! You’ll be the first Warden in centuries to have bonded with a griffon!”_ _

__“...yes, I suppose I will be.” He cleared his throat roughly and averted his gaze from her, but there was finally the beginnings of a smile at the corners of his mouth._ _

__“There’s a lot of neat Warden things in the creepy root cellar that you’ll want to see,” she added and pushed him towards the door. “Plus that note from Soren Mahariel. Go bond with the baby over the fascinating history of the Wardens while I go find food since Garahel ate our breakfast.”_ _

__The griffon in question gave an indignant squawk._ _

__“You _did_ tell me to bring the fish in,” Blackwall pointed out with the barest hint of amusement._ _

__“...okay, yes, maybe I did, but I didn’t think he’d eat the entire thing.”_ _

__All he did was roll his eyes in answer and disappeared down the stairs. A couple minutes later, as Bridget was rummaging through their supplies looking for more jerky because in actuality she was far too lazy to go out foraging like a primeval hunter-gatherer, she heard Blackwall exclaim in delighted surprise._ _

__“This is darkspawn blood! And these are Deep Roads maps! And this armor is forged from silverite!”_ _

__“Aw, he’s like me in any Ancient Greece section of a museum,” Bridget mused through a mouthful of jerky and bread, starting to wipe the eggshells and embryonic goo off of her cloak. “He’s cute when he geeks out.”_ _

__“Speaking of Blackwall being cute…” Hope smirked up at Bridget with knowing eyes, cradling her face in her claws as she assumed a position that clearly meant she was eager for a good story. “I sensed what happened between you two. I should have cut off our connection, because I know it was private, but I was concerned you were going to…”_ _

__“Freak the hell out because I have a very complicated relationship with relationships and intimacy?” Bridget finished dryly, throwing her cloak back on when it was clean enough. The dragon nodded, looking slightly chagrined. “Least you were honest about it. And I think it’s fine? I mean…” Her face felt hot as she remembered how tightly he had held her, how she had pretty much told him how she felt without actually using those three little words. “We’re not friends. We’re something more. Even though I don’t know what to call it, I like where we’re at.”_ _

__“Are you going to ask him to cuddle whenever your heart desires it?”_ _

__She knew her face had grown even more red and she pushed Hope aside so she could sit on the bed. She pulled _Swords and Shields_ out from the pockets and turned it to where she had left off the night before. “...I would like to,” she admitted quietly. “He has very nice hugs. They’re warm.”_ _

__“Ask him to share the bed tonight. For sharing body heat purposes only, of course,” Hope added quickly when Bridget choked and let out a strangled groan, rolling onto her side to hide her crimson face._ _

__“What the hell?! I-I can’t do that! And he would probably say no because he’s too damn self-sacrificing and chivalrous!”_ _

__“You won’t know unless you try it,” the dragon sang mockingly, sounding quite pleased with herself._ _

__Bridget just grunted irately and flipped her off, focusing on the bodice-ripping adventures of Varric’s smut magnum opus. Which honestly wasn’t that great, and she could write something way better actually using the words ‘cock’ and ‘pussy.’_ _

__Half an hour later Blackwall returned with Garahel in his arms, eyes bright and gait as light as a feather. “There was so much Warden history in that one chest,” he said with the voice of a man who was clearly having a nerdgasm but doing his best to contain it in a societal appropriate manner. “I truly wish I could meet Warden-Commander Mahariel and thank him for leaving this behind. It’s incredible! But we still need to go out and search for those abandoned camps, unfortunately, since this cache doesn’t tell us anything about the current goal of the Wardens.”_ _

__“No time like the present!” Bridget chirped with as much normalcy as she could muster as she slammed the book shut, having just read a particularly _raunchy_ passage involving being tied up and blindfolded._ _

__She imagined Blackwall performing some acts on her whilst she was in a similar situation. And then she imagined doing the exact same thing to him. Only with ten times as much...force. And the noises he made were almost too good to just be in her head._ _

__She suddenly felt very hot all over but it was mostly concentrated at the juncture between her legs._ _

__“Oooooh no,” she practically whimpered as she bit her lower lip, ignoring the flashes of “bitch I know what you’re thinking about” from Hope and straightened up when Blackwall glanced at her curiously. She just gave him a forced smile and a shaky thumbs up. “J-just need some air, is all! Meet you outside!”_ _

__Bridget ran past the burly man and out the door before she exploded._ _

__The rest of the day passed quickly, with the pair managing to find two more Warden camps that were actually useful to their mission. The only bear they saw in the distance was tactfully avoided. Bridget did not get into any more Griffon Dust to go on a rainbow Blackwall vacation. They found multiple journal entries by a nameless person describing their search for some important figure in the order—apparently another big shot named Clarel wanted him brought in for questioning because he did some things to piss her off, but the dude (who was just as nameless as the journal writer) remained elusive. He had led them on a wild goose chase all across the Storm Coast until eventually the Wardens decided to return to Orlais for further instructions. The final journal entry mentioned losing their copy of _Swords and Shields_. _ _

__Bridget counted it as a victory._ _

__Blackwall caught some more fish for dinner. Only he didn’t use a fishing pole like a normal person. He stood in the river perfectly still, Garahel on his shoulder, and swiped at the fish that swam by to catch them with his bare hands. Like a bear._ _

__It was hot._ _

__When they had finished eating and Garahel was passed out next to the fire in a bed of canvas and cloth they had taken from the camps, Hope declared that she “required a reprieve” from the physical world and returned to the Fade._ _

__Which left Bridget alone with Blackwall, who hadn't said anything about their profound words or tight embrace since it had happened in the morning. But he had looked at her with a softness in his eyes she didn’t recall ever truly seeing, and so she took it as a sign from whatever gods that were watching over her to throw caution to the wind and just do it._ _

__“Blackwall?”_ _

__Her nervous and trembling voice cut through the silence of the outpost, save for the crackling of the fire and Garahel's tiny squeaky snores. He was sitting cross legged next to the sleeping griffon, gazing into the fire as he rubbed Garahel's face affectionately. At the sound of his name he turned, a calm smile gracing his lips. She didn’t remember the last time he looked so peaceful._ _

__“Yes, my lady?”_ _

___HAHAHAHA HOLY FUCK._ _ _

__It felt like she had been stabbed right in the heart but in a weirdly good way and she nearly melted at the warmth in his voice. Bridget had not been expecting that. She almost liked it than hearing him say his name. Almost._ _

__From where she sat on the bed, twirling a piece of her hair nervously, leg bouncing restlessly, she blurted out, “Willyousharethebedwithme?”_ _

__Blackwall stared at her, silent._ _

__And then slowly, with a predator-like grace, he stood up and sauntered over to the bed, towering above her like a fortress of beardy lumberjackness, the gentle smile replaced by an amused grin that made her want to disintegrate onto the floor. “Apologies, I didn’t quite catch that. Come again?”_ _

__His voice was back to that low and husky thing he had done when he had flirted with her back in Haven. Now that the seal on her libido was opened somewhat, it was wrecking her from the inside._ _

__Bridget jerked her gaze to the floor, certain that she was sweating profusely. “Um. I, uh. Will you, um...will you sh-share the bed...with me…?” she repeated, much more slowly this time despite the way her heart was begging her to give it a rest. “Because the floor looks uncomfortable,” she added hastily, squeezing a chunk of hair so hard that it started to hurt. “And it was cold last night.”_ _

__A massive weight sunk into the bed next to her. She hazarded a sideways glance; Blackwall sat at her side, a tenderness taking over the alluring vibes in the lines of his face. “Only if you are certain,” he answered quietly. “but I would rather like sleeping on the bed as opposed to the floor. And you’re right—it gets cold here at night.”_ _

__Bridget’s intention was to react with a sophisticated serenity that would have rivaled Beyoncé accepting an Emmy (or was it a Grammy?) from God himself._ _

__However, she didn’t actually have control over her entire person, and before she knew it she had knocked Blackwall down onto the bed and wrapped her arms around him, with no intention of moving anytime soon._ _

__He wordlessly returned the embrace as he shifted his body so that she fit snugly against him rather than the pretzel mess of limbs they were originally. There was a mutual understanding between them in that moment; it wasn’t just the prospect of sleeping on the floor, or being cold._ _

__It was about being alone. Bridget felt his loneliness and self-loathing the way she could feel her own, so visceral and overpowering that for a moment she was certain everything that had happened was a dream and she was still unfortunately high as a kite. But something told her no, that it was real. Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was Hope, ever helpful from the Fade._ _

___Murderer._ _ _

___Traitor._ _ _

___Liar._ _ _

___Bastard._ _ _

___Scum._ _ _

___You should hang for what you did. Instead you prance around wearing the name of a dead man. She won’t accept you when you tell her the truth and you know it, you besotted fool._ _ _

__She _felt_ Blackwall in his entirety for a moment that was so short it lasted an eternity. Beneath the layers of anger and sorrow, which tasted bitter on her tongue, there was a layer of delicate sweetness. _ _

___Lovely._ _ _

__Her face morphed around the wondrous sensations, eyes bright and smile wide._ _

__Bridget was a little frightened at the intensity of whatever the hell had just happened. Blackwall remained still, his breath even and heartbeat steady as she kept her face shoved against his chest, fingers twitching where she clung to the fabric of his clothing. The fervor came and went like a hurricane. Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes but she willed them away; judging by Blackwall’s silence, he hadn’t experienced the profound sensations, and it felt dirty of her to admit that she had. She didn’t understand why. Her chest clenched painfully, like it was being wrung dry._ _

__“Are you still awake?” Bridget asked quietly after some time, when his grip on her began to loosen slightly. She turned her head upwards to see the amber glow from the fire dancing across his cheeks and his eyes fluttering open, a drowsy look to them._ _

__“Hm…?” he mumbled, yawning. It should not have looked as cute as it did on a man his size and build. But it did._ _

__“You know how Solas knows a lot about spirits and stuff?”_ _

__“I...yes…?” Blackwall was only slightly more awake now as his face creased with a sleepy confusion._ _

__“Do you think he fucks spirits in the Fade?”_ _

__“Maferath’s balls.” It was clear Blackwall was trying not to laugh but the way his body was shaking around her, he was failing quite miserably. “Go to sleep, Bridget. ...but yes. I think he does. I’ll ask him one of these days,” he promised with a snort, closing his eyes again and pulling her closer._ _

__The sleep Bridget got that night was the best she’d gotten since coming to Thedas._ _


	10. in your heart shall burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaha this is the chapter cullen fans will stop reading after lmao. 
> 
> anyway hi. this turned out much longer than expected. i just kinda slowly kept adding more and more and never found a decent spot to end? and i was doing the whole "work out my own issues using this fic" thing that it's meant for so again it just never felt complete until the very end. yeah. oof. but i like how it turned out for the most part. also holy hell there's so many hits and kudos on this i honestly can't believe y'all are reading this hot mess and enjoying it?????
> 
> hey here's that bridgewall playlist i was talking about that i'm too lazy to properly link:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1sPzYG6dFZ3336CfzaYNyx?si=rpZcrxO5QQ6dYr8V5PVA7g
> 
> aka it's just songs i rly like for the most part shrug emogi
> 
> also are there any ffxv fans out there who wanna cry with me because episode ardyn literally broke my fuckin soul even though i knew that's where they were going with the story but still why you gotta do hobo jesus dirty square enix.

They remained in the Storm Coast for three more days.

There was an unspoken understanding between the two of them. Neither really wanted to return to Haven; to do so would mean returning to the political monotony of the Inquisition, even if Blackwall had pledged his sword to fight the Breach and Bridget missed calling Vazrah terribly uncreative nicknames. 

But amongst the basalt cliffs, gray skies, and salty air, everything was much more simple. They didn’t speak any more of the secrets they could not share just yet. The oddly visceral and intense sensations of Blackwall’s own emotions Bridget had felt never resurfaced, even though they continued to share the bed each night, holding one another in comfortable silence. Hope claimed not to know what those flashes were, but she didn’t sound all too convincing. Bridget let it go in favor of concentrating on the pure bliss that was spending time with the Warden.

They discovered a couple more Warden camps as they explored more of the Storm Coast, mostly to find ways to teach Garahel about the world into which he had hatched. Though the little griffon could not speak directly to Bridget and Blackwall, Hope was able to convey his thoughts for the most part. Garahel didn’t know how long his egg had been enchanted, but he felt that it was a very long time. Griffons evidently grew fast as long as they were fed every day because by the time they decided to return to Haven, Garahel had gone from being the size of a housecat to just under the size of a mabari—big wardogs native to Ferelden who were bred to fight. He was always hungry, eating everything from nugs to rabbits to fish. It was hard to believe how small he had been upon first hatching. In a month he would probably be nearly his full size, which would be bigger than a draft horse according to the legends.

Blackwall didn’t voice it out loud but Bridget could tell he was somewhat disappointed that Garahel no longer fit on his shoulders. It didn’t stop the growing griffon from trying, however.

The camps did not give much more information on the current whereabouts of the Grey Wardens; the set of journals were really the only concrete evidence they found. Blackwall was more pleased with the cache left behind by Soren Mahariel being that he was a history buff, which explained the books he’d had in the Hinterlands and the little tidbits he’d thrown at her occasionally. 

Bridget lightly chastised him for taking so long to reveal his hobby, being that she had literally graduated with a bachelor’s in history. His excuse was being a soldier, his interest in the subject didn’t match his station in life, so he often kept it quiet. She was glad that she didn’t have to explain college at least, since there were universities scattered across much of Orlais.

“Is that why you took to learning about Thedas so quickly?” Blackwall asked as he skinned a rabbit Garahel had proudly caught for them only minutes before. The griffon was curled up at Blackwall’s side, watching the blood and fur fall into the grass with eager golden eyes, lion’s tail swishing back and forth. 

“Probably! I can’t believe I’ve never actually talked about it with you before,” Bridget admitted bashfully, working on a large fish that Garahel had also caught and presented to her right after he had given Blackwall the rabbit. “I loved ancient history the most. Well, I still do. But ancient mythologies, customs, politics, views on sexuality, food...words fail to fully describe my love for it. I actually begged my family to take me to the Field Museum in Chicago when they had a display of the terracotta warriors because I wanted to see them with my own eyes rather than books. ...I know that makes no sense to you but trust me, it was fucking awesome.”

“You're right. It makes little sense, but I can tell you have true passion for it." 

He paused thoughtfully for a moment, lips pursed pensively.

"I think you would enjoy the history Tevinter has to offer, in all honesty. There are ruins dating back to when the Imperium ruled the world here in Orlais and Ferelden, but it’s nothing like actually going to Minrathous. I’ve only been once but it was fascinating. The ancient elves left their mark as well, though mostly in Orlais, and their architecture is majestic even when half-destroyed. Though it fills you with a sense of grief when you think about how that came to be.” He cleaned the now naked body of the rabbit in the stream they were camped next to, shoving a stick through the length of it and setting it on top of the small fire they had going. Garahel purred in anticipation.

“After the Breach is sealed, maybe the Inquisition could let us go on a sightseeing vacation,” Bridget joked. She scraped off the last of the scales and poked the fish through a stick of her own, holding it over the flames. “You show me all these ancient ruins and tell me their stories, and I’ll tell you about my world’s history as best I can. I’d draw you maps, but I can’t even make a stick figure.”

“I’d like that.” He gave her that tender smile that set the butterflies into a tizzy and made her legs weak and wobbly. “I’ve been meaning to ask for some time, but...does this sound familiar to you at all?” He spoke some words with great difficulty, pronouncing everything slowly and with an unfamiliar inflection.

Bridget stared at him, blinking rapidly. “That’s ancient Greek. Where the hell did you hear ancient Greek? Unless Thedas has some linguistic common ancestor that is freakishly similar to it, that language should only exist in my world. And it’s not really spoken anymore unless you're a graduate student in a level 500 dead language course.”

“You said it in the dark future. To a dead chantry Mother as you closed her eyes.” Garahel headbutted Blackwall’s side and cooed gently, sensing the heavy melancholy in his words.

“O-Oh. Damn. Well, uh...it means ‘Earth, mother of all, I greet you.’ I learned it from a video ga—story! I learned it from a story,” Bridget clarified, not really feeling like explaining the nuances and concept of modern technology just yet. “Greek mythology is actually my favorite pantheon from my old world. I almost named my staff Zeus, after the father god who controls lightning, but he’s a massive dick who sleeps with literally anything that moves. I went with Mjölnir instead. It’s a magic hammer belonging to the Nordic storm god, Thor.” 

“You should ask about Dalish history when we return,” Blackwall suggested, waving the smoke from the fire away from his face. Bridget imagined it was also a way to banish the misery of the memories of the dark future from his mind. “I do not know enough about their gods to give you an accurate account and I don’t wish to bastardize their religion. But I imagine you would find their myths and tales intriguing. Just don’t ask Sera, or the lass will put an arrow through your eyes.”

“Or Solas, because then he’ll lecture me on the difference between the Dalish and true elves.” Bridget rolled her eyes with a huff. “It sucks because he’s genuinely smart, and we could probably have philosophical discussions for hours, but my god he is such an insufferable ass that I want to punch him.”

“I’m not terribly fond of his personality myself,” Blackwall admitted with a sigh. “But I respect his prowess as a mage and seemingly infinite knowledge. Even if he doesn’t seem to be a fan of the Grey Wardens and the order’s ‘obsession’ with darkspawn.”

“Actually, I would love to have a magical brainstorming session with Dorian. Modern Tevinter sounds harsh for anyone without magic, but he’s got some interesting opinions.” She turned the fish over to cook the other side, noticing Garahel eyeing it with a little bit of drool coming out of his beak. Fish were apparently his favorite food but Hope was fairly certain it was just because the first thing he ever ate was the salmon. 

“He’s a peacock with no sense of courtesy,” Blackwall muttered darkly, furrowing his eyebrows as he glared at the fire. “And he dabbles in necromancy. Do you know what many Mortalitasi do to corpses?”

“You’re just salty because he told you to learn basic hygiene,” she affectionately teased. He glowered at her in response and she grinned, letting the action border on a flirty smirk. “I happen to like the rugged, brooding woodsman look. It says ‘I’m going to chop down a tree and build you a cabin with my bare hands.’ Plus you smell like pine, which I find super attractive. Better than the funky cologne Dorian likes to bathe himself in.”

She’d gotten a little bolder since their moment in the rain. The sight of his cheeks becoming ruddy to the tips of his ears down past where his beard met his neck was a better reward than she could imagine.

Briefly, she wondered if she smelled like him from all their nighttime cuddling. She sincerely hoped so.

“W-well. Thank you. Though I regret to inform you that I plan on taking a nice bath when we return to Haven.” He returned her coy smile with one of his own, despite it being far more reserved. Blackwall still struggled finding the proper balance between flirting and embarrassment. It was charming beyond belief. “I’ll make sure to add some pine needles to the water.”

The rabbit and fish both appeared to be done cooking. Bridget and Blackwall cut their conversation short in favor of food but as Blackwall raised the rabbit to his mouth and prepared to take a bite, Garahel jumped up and tore it away from the stick with his beak, swallowing the whole thing in one bite.

Blackwall stared at the empty stick in his hand for a few moments before turning his attention to Garahel with a dour look set in the crinkles of his eyes. “You _just_ ate an hour ago. If you were still hungry, you could have let me know and I would have helped you catch more fish. What you just did was quite rude, Garahel. I thought I was teaching you better manners than that.” His tone was stern but not harsh as he reprimanded the young griffon, who at least had the decency to look somewhat remorseful with flattened ears and a bowed head.

 _Oh my god. He’s acting so paternal right now. He’s...he’s Dadwall. FUCK, why is that hot?_

Garahel warbled a dissonant cry and hung his head even lower, the tips of his wings dragging on the ground. “He says he’s sorry,” Hope called from her space in Bridget’s cloak pocket. She’d been so caught up in spending time with Blackwall that she had forgotten that Hope had returned from the Fade that morning. “He can’t help his hunger. Growing griffons constantly eat.”

“That may be so, but it is no excuse for eating someone else’s food without permission.” Blackwall crossed his arms and leaned back on the log he was sitting on, seeming to double in size as he gathered every bit of intimidating force inside of him. “When we return to Haven, your presence will be a shock to everyone. You must show them that you are courteous and know what manners are. Which means no stealing anyone’s food, no matter how hungry you are.”

Garahel deflated even more, shuffling forward and putting his head demurely in Blackwall’s lap, blinking up with watery golden eyes.

“Your son is attempting to beguile you with puppy dog eyes,” Bridget warned casually, biting into her fish.

“He is to be my _partner_ in battle,” he corrected indignantly, though he did place his hand on top of Garahel’s head and scratched at the soft mix of fur and feathers. “I will not be tempted into allowing his poor behavior, not matter how much he pleads.”

“Aw, your dad is a big softie underneath all that growling, Garahel. Don’t let him fool you.”

“If I am the father, then what are you in this unusual household?” Blackwall’s words had a lilting tone to them but even so, the question send a flush creeping up Bridget’s neck and she nearly choked on her fish.

She’d never been one to imagine motherhood. Quite the opposite, actually, considering her crippling fear of intimacy and being tasked with raising a child when she could barely take care of herself. 

That all got thrown out the door the moment Blackwall presented such a tantalizing question. She struggled to keep calm, banishing certain thoughts from her mind back into the dark corner where they belonged.

“I’m the cool aunt who spoils her feathery nephew with food and cuddles, obviously.” Bridget swept Garahel up in a hug to prove her point but truly, it was to hide her face from Blackwall’s prying eyes in the griffon’s fur. 

Garahel squawked at the sudden embrace and struggled in her arms like a cat who did not want to be held, but gave up when he realized she wasn’t about to loosen her grip anytime soon. He was immediately placated when she shoved the fish near his face, ears perking and wings shuffling joyously as the entire thing slid down his gullet.

She had a feeling the defeated sigh Blackwall gave wasn’t entirely directed at her indulgence of Garahel.

\---

A group of giant acid-spitting spiders attacked them in broad daylight on their way back to the Inquisition’s base camp. They were dispatched with much more ease compared to the time in the cave, but Bridget still screamed just as much (if not more) because they were even uglier out in the open. She harvested some of their fangs as trophies. Well, Blackwall did the actual harvesting, as she refused to touch any part of the carcasses.

Needless to say, showing up to the camp with a baby griffon in tow was definitely a way to make an impression. Bull and his Chargers arrived just minutes before Bridget and Blackwall, having recruited the “bandits” (who were actually a cult known as the Blades of Hessarian) to work for the Inquisition.

At first Bull thought Garahel was a giant chicken that Blackwall was bringing back to Haven for a celebratory feast. The griffon bit him in retaliation and slapped him in the face with his tail. Blackwall wore a proud smile up until the teleportation spell. The sight of the glowing runes inscribed on the parchment made him go green.

As expected, only Bridget and Dalish returned to Haven’s war room unscathed, being the token mages. Vazrah and Josephine were more surprised at the fact that the entire group arrived earlier than expected rather than arriving in the middle of a meeting with some foppish Orlesian nobles.

They were even more surprised by the nauseous griffon that spewed half-digested fish guts all over the stone floor.

Bridget wanted to stay and help organize the chaos, as well as give her report alongside Blackwall, but the moment the spell dumped her back into the chantry’s war room she was hit by a thousand emotions and thoughts that were most definitely not her own. 

It was like the way she had felt Blackwall’s innermost heart except it was ten times worse and too many voices were whispering in her ear. Hope sent a wave of concern through their bond, staying silent from where she hid in the cloak, and Bridget clung to that connection to keep her sane as she fled from the anarchic atmosphere, racing through the chantry and escaping into the cold air of Haven. 

Ice crystals began to form on her cloak being that it was still wet from the Storm Coast’s rain as she blindly stumbled into person after person, wanting to leave the gates that surrounded the sanctuary but somehow she couldn’t find the exit. 

She could see, yet her mind was filled with such tumultuous screaming and flashes of faces of people she did not know that it was impossible to actually see. It was like a million wasps were building a nest in her head and her heart, jabbing their stingers into her skin and filling her with a poison that burned hotter than fire.

_My son is dead and it is all the Inquisition’s fault for sending him on a mission he wasn’t ready for._

_Why? Why did she leave me for a knife-ear? I’ll kill them. I’ll kill both of them._

_Maker have mercy, but I cannot do this anymore! The fighting, the terror, it’s too much..._

_The Herald needs to fix this. She needs to fix everything before it’s too late. Why is she taking so long to fix it?!_

She heard Hope call out to her and felt the dragon’s claws digging into her hands, but her voice was drowned out by everything else.

Just as she thought she was going to go mad, a hand clamped on her shoulder, and the buzzing ceased immediately. 

Bridget met dark eyes so deep she thought for a moment she had tried to drown herself again. After a couple of blinks, though, she realized it was Solas; she was standing outside the hut next to the apothecary, and the elven mage was staring at her with a steely and unreadable expression. She opened her mouth to speak but found the words weren’t working. Solas pulled her into the hut and closed the door without a word, helping her fumble around for a chair. She sank into it in relief, too exhausted to truly notice Hope slinking out from the cloak and climbing up onto her chest, pressing against her. Lucid warmth filled Bridget to the brim, starting from her heart where the dragon was laying, and flowing through the rest of her like the gentle currents of a stream.

“Can you speak now?” he asked, giving Hope a simple nod by way of greetings. His tone was analytical, like a doctor asking her to list her family’s history of diseases.

“Y-yes.” Bridget’s voice came out as a raspy whisper and she wiped away the tears she hadn’t realized were falling down her face. “What...what just happened?”

“Your magic is of the storm, am I correct?” She nodded, and Solas tapped his slender fingers on the staff he was holding thoughtfully. “You somehow opened yourself to feel the auras of those around you. It is quite easy for a mage whose magic draws on the storm, due to being able to tap into the electromagnetic field created by emotions. I sensed the unrest in your mind and placed a barrier before it overtook you. It is an incredibly delicate process that inexperienced mages may lose themselves in without a proper mentor.”

“I thank you, _hahren_.” Hope cleared her throat and drew herself upright as much as she could while still clinging to Bridget’s shirt. “I was unaware that her enhanced connection to the storm would give her such a gift, and with such strength. The many troubled minds here in Haven must have agitated it.”

Solas’ usually stony expression softened when Hope addressed him with the unfamiliar word (elven, most likely, but Bridget didn’t know what it meant) and he actually gave a small smile. “I have felt you many times since she joined the Inquisition but I believe this is the first we have met, _da’ isenatha_. I must admit my surprise at such a tender spirit choosing to be the guide of a human."

He actually was being somewhat pleasant rather than sticking his nose in the air. Key word being "somewhat." It was unusual and kind of suspicious.

“Usually I would give a shit that someone other than Blackwall or Varric saw Hope, but right now I just want to know what’s going on,” Bridget mumbled from where she slumped in the chair, giving Solas a halfhearted glare. “She’s not a spirit. Not exactly. What do you mean by ‘a human’? I thought any mage could contact spirits and demons...but again, Hope isn’t a total spirit.”

“I meant no offense,” the elf responded amiably enough, though his reply was aloof enough to show he didn’t really care how she felt. “It has merely been a long time since I have seen anyone have such a bond with a creature of the Fade, human or otherwise. But may I ask what you are, _da’ isenatha_ , if not a spirit drawn across the Veil?”

“My true name was lost before the first of the People began to build their libraries and palace from golden threads of pure magic, _hahren_. I have watched countless empires rise and fall and wept for the innocent and guilty alike. The fall of Arlathan is as fresh as today’s sunrise in my memory.” 

Hope fixated him with a stare colder than the ice that was already melting from Bridget’s cloak; she had never seen Hope look so sullen and remorseful before, not even when she had said that the dragons of modern Thedas couldn’t understand her. “I have seen it all, old wolf.”

Solas appeared taken aback by Hope’s words, pale skin turning slightly ashen as he flinched ever so slightly. 

“What’s done is done. The price was paid,” he said in an eerily steady tone that held hints of darkness and shadows as twisted as a bramble patch hidden deep within the heart of the most wild forest. All cordial respect was gone. “One day the People will walk proudly once more, with their heads held high and true, and the cost will be worth the pain.”

Bridget had no idea what they were talking about, but she sensed shit was about to get ugly.

“Look, uh, thank you for snapping me out of that freaky empath episode. I should go before I waste any more of your time.” She began to rise from the chair, biting her lower lip nervously. She’d always been creeped out by Solas ever since their first meeting in the Hinterlands, but that ominous ambience he carried around him like his own personal raincloud was even worse than usual. Or maybe it was just the sudden magical emotion sensor, honing in on his aura despite the supposed barrier. 

Either way, she was not a fan and just wanted to get the hell away.

But Hope had other ideas and flew over to Solas, hovering in his face as her wings flapped gracefully like a glittering butterfly. 

“ _Ir abelas, hahren_. I sympathized with the plight of the People. It was the solution that caused me pain.” Hope stretched a clawed paw out, just barely touching the middle of Solas’ forehead.

He bowed his head subserviently, jaw clenched and eyes glittering dangerously. 

“There is always another option even if all seems hopeless, Solas.”

The threatening aura vanished from him instantly and he sighed, shoulders dropping and face looking haggard. “...I thank you for your counsel,” he murmured in a heavy voice dripping with venomous regret. 

Hope returned to Bridget’s side and burrowed back into her usual pocket, silent. Bridget headed to the door and put her hand on the knob to open it, giving Solas one last sideways glance. “I don’t understand what just happened,” she said softly against her better judgement, “but Hope means well. Thank you again for helping me.” She opened the door just a crack, preparing to step out, when his next words stopped her in her tracks.

“You are not of this world.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a question. It was a simple, matter-of-fact statement.

**He will understand the truth. And he will not hold it against you, regardless of how you perceive him.**

Bridget didn’t exactly trust Solas, but she sure as hell trusted Hope. “No, I’m not. I’m from a small town in Iowa, a shitty state in a shitty country in a shitty world that exists far away from Thedas, and I am pulling every decision I make here out of my newly magical ass.”

She left and was at the stables before she knew it, hopping into Pookie’s pen and leaning against the nuggalope’s chunky flank. She drew in a deep breath of chilly mountain air, running a hand through her hair. On instinct she gathered her essence—aura, as Solas had called it—and reached out to Blackwall. There was a tug on the other end, like getting a bite while fishing. She felt him getting closer and closer and then he was standing before her, shoulders heaving from how hard he sprinted.

“Bridget?” His eyes were full of concern and confusion, and he hoisted himself into the pen, boots crunching on straw and hay. His body drew up close to her and his arms twitched like he wanted to reach out and grab her, but there were people milling about. “You left as soon as we returned, running out like the undead were after you. Are you alright?”

“I am now,” she answered sincerely, pushing her face against his broad chest and sliding her arms around her neck, feeling whole again. He paused only for a moment, as if weighing the pros and cons of publicly embracing a young woman, before ultimately grabbing her by the waist and pulling her close. 

“You’ll incite scandalous gossip if anyone sees us like this,” Blackwall teased softly in her ear, though he didn’t really sound like he cared.

She could stay in his arms for the rest of her life.

“I accidentally did some magic stuff that let me feel people’s emotions. Probably because of the new spells the storm taught me. It went haywire and I couldn’t handle it when we came back. Solas helped me. I’m sorry I left without a word.” 

Pookie rumbled from behind her, chewing on the edge of her cloak, inadvertently pushing her even closer to Blackwall. His hand rubbed her back in slow, methodic circles. It was mesmerizing how wonderful it felt on her suddenly sore muscles. “Don’t apologize. Lady Adaar wants to talk to you about something when you feel up to it. We both almost ran after you but...it wouldn’t have looked good in front of the chantry representatives. Not that Garahel making a mess in the war room made a good first impression.” He snorted with a laugh, chest rumbling and tickling her cheeks.

“I take it the world’s first look at a griffon after a few centuries wasn’t entirely impressive,” Bridget mused dryly, finally tearing herself away (though she really didn’t want to) from him and turning her attention to Pookie, rubbing the back of his ear. 

“I’m not entirely sure. I left him with Lady Adaar and told him to behave. Not the best thinking on my part, leaving a griffon hatchling in a room full of important political figures. Somehow I had a feeling I would find you here. I just...I just had to see you.” The confession was spoken in hushed tones, Blackwall clearing his throat sheepishly. 

_It’s because I called you here_ , Bridget wanted to tell him, but she didn’t because it would open up a can of worms she didn’t feel like dealing with just yet.

“I suppose we should go back before Garahel eats a batch of those tiny Orlesian cakes and pukes again because of all the sugar,” was what she said instead, giving Pookie a final pat and kissing him on the tip of his wet snout. He snorted and tossed his head, pawing at the pile of straw and hay she usually used for a bed. It was nice to know that someone missed her.

Blackwall blanched at the thought and immediately turned around, heading back towards the chantry. Bridget followed close behind.

The war room wasn’t in as much disarray as she expected when they returned. The Iron Bull and his men were gone, as were the fancy nobles, but in their place were Cullen and Leliana.The mess a certain young griffon had created on the floor was gone like it had never been there in the first place. 

The moment Bridget and Blackwall entered, Garahel raced towards them and tackled the latter to the ground, squawking loudly and ruffling the feathers on his wings as he nuzzled his fuzzy face against Blackwall. His tail wagged like a dog’s, even when Blackwall forced himself to his feet and pushed him away. 

“Behave,” he hissed with a stern expression. There was a layer of undeniable fondness in his words. Garahel whined and retreated back onto his haunches, looking like a petulant child who was just denied ice cream. 

Cullen and Leliana gave Bridget a scathing look when she giggled at the sight, making her inch towards Vazrah and Josephine. They looked much more refreshed compared to the last time she saw them. And were standing very close to one another, she noted with interest.

“So.” Vazrah cleared her throat, staring intently at the young griffon, who was now preening at his wings. “Care to explain how you two came across a bloody _griffon_?”

Blackwall stepped forward and gave a short version of their exploits in the Storm Coast, handing Vazrah the note from the Hero of Ferelden when he was finished. The entire time Cullen and Leliana were staring at Garahel with hard, incredulous eyes. He balked under their gazes at first but as Blackwall continued to speak, the griffon’s growing mane fluffed out and he stared back with golden eyes that nearly glowed like the sun. There was a challenge in them, daring them to defy him.

They didn’t.

“I’ll send a raven to Harding and have her acquire the Hero’s cache and send it here for safekeeping,” Vazrah hummed thoughtfully. “Not much we can do about the Wardens until they make a public appearance, however.”

“I will have Charter look into Soren’s whereabouts. Perhaps my scouts can find something now that we know he is on a search to stop the Calling.” Leliana’s knife-like eyes were uncharastically soft with nostalgia. “It is good to know he’s safe. It has been so long since I have heard from him that I was beginning to worry.”

Bridget didn’t know the spymaster was acquainted with the Hero. But it made sense, Leliana being a veteran of the Fifth Blight and all.

“I believe the more pressing matter is the griffon,” Cullen grunted, crossing his arms. “If word gets out the Inquisition has acquired one...Maker’s breath, just think of the chaos it could bring.”

Of course, he had to be all gloom and doom about something so amazing. Bridget wasn’t the least bit surprised.

“On the contrary,” Josephine cut in, a delighted smile on her face. “I believe this has happened at the perfect time. We received the blessing of the Chantry _and_ Empress Celene to go forth with sealing the Breach. A Warden who has pledged himself to our cause gaining the companionship of a griffon works in our favor. The Breach threatens Thedas the way a Blight does. Perhaps it’s a sign from the Maker. Some propaganda and tasteful public viewings may draw in more support from nobility and peasantry alike.”

Blackwall shifted uncomfortably, eyes guarded. “With all due respect, Lady Montilyet, I am not sure I like the idea of Garahel being paraded around.”

“It’s going to be impossible to keep him a secret. But we should treat this with subtly and be as transparent as possible.” Vazrah folded up Soren’s note and gave it to Leliana, who slipped it into her pocket. “For now we’ll focus on the Breach. Tomorrow is when we’re going to march for the assault. You two are welcome to join if you wish. Get some rest and meet at Haven’s gates at dawn if you want to march with us.”

She dismissed them with a wave, turning her attention to Josephine. Cullen stalked out with an irritated grumble and Leliana brushed by Bridget silently, though the way she looked at her with intense and wary eyes almost made her shiver. 

Bridget remembered Blackwall’s comment about Vazrah wanting to speak with her about something. He seemed to read her mind and clasped a strong hand on her shoulder, voice threaded with formality. “I’ll get Garahel something to eat and find him a suitable place to stay. Make sure to do the same.” 

She knew why he acted as if they were just acquaintances but it still felt odd and slightly painful.

When he and the griffon were gone Bridget cleared her throat, not wanting to rudely interrupt the conversation between Josephine and Vazrah—who were so caught up with one another that they didn’t even notice that she had remained. “Uh, Blackwall said you had something to talk to me about,” she mumbled when the two jumped at the sound of her voice, startled. She noted the flush creeping into their cheeks. A daisy flower was tucked into Josephine’s elegant bun. Vazrah had a slightly bigger one threaded into her braid.

_Did the S. S. Vaseline set sail while I was gone?! And I missed the whole thing?! Oh, come on!_

“Ah…” Vazrah’s eyes shifted back and forth and she chewed on her bottom lip, looking oddly contrite. “It can wait until after the Breach is sealed. I’m sure you would rather take a bath and relax after spending so much time up there. Camping out in the constant rain must have been exhausting. When the Fallow Mire group came back yesterday, Dorian informed me that if I ever sent him somewhere ‘as dank and wet’ as there again, he would summon a horde of undead to shit on all of my clothes.”

She laughed, a bit forcefully, and Bridget frowned. The qunari was acting strangely. As if she had something to hide.

_It’s probably just her wanting to be alone with Josephine. I bet she got used to all their “meetings.” I can’t blame her, since I feel so incomplete without Blackwall at my side now._

“I’d pay to see that,” Bridget grinned as she imagined it. “Welp, guess I’ll leave you both to your politics and whatnot. Don’t have too much fun.”

“Please, do enjoy the rest of your evening.” Josephine gave her a polite bow of the head, which seemed to be the ambassador’s standard way of saying goodbye. She seemed just as fidgety as Vazrah, but in a much more subtle manner. 

_Either they’re gonna make out once I leave or discuss highly sensitive topics I’m not allowed to hear. I’ll put my money on the first option._

Upon leaving the chantry and starting towards the tavern for whatever food they were serving at the time (she hoped it was that mouthwatering stew and bread), Bridget bumped into Varric, who was heading in the same direction.

“Hey, Princess! Heard about the Warden cache from Hero just now.” He greeted her with a jovial grin. “I’ve gotta admit, the griffon was unexpected. Better hope the big shots at Weisshaupt don’t find out. They’ll swarm Haven like darkspawn with an archdemon.”

“I’m not too worried.” Bridget shrugged nonchalantly as she slipped her hand into her pocket, giving Hope a quick pat on the head from where she lay curled up in her hiding spot. “Actually, I found something even _better_ than a griffon.”

She pulled out the copy of _Swords and Shields_ with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Varric’s trademark grin immediately soured into a horrified gawk and he actually stepped back a couple feet, shaking his head rapidly.

“Andraste’s sacred knickers. Bridget, _no_.”

_Well, if he’s shaken up enough, Varric uses your actual name instead of his kitschy nickname. I’ll file that tasty little tidbit away for later._

“Bridget, _yes_.”

She opened the book to where she had last left off, clearing her throat and adopting the haughty voice of someone well-versed in public speech. “‘Her ample bosoms heaved with the weight of her lustful desires. Her legs spread wantonly, her perfumed sanctuary calling to him the way the honeyed scent of a blossoming flower calls to a butterfly, desperate for just a sip of its divine sweetness.’”

“Stop! Please, for the love of all the ancestors, don’t read anymore!” Varric groaned, hiding his roguish face in his hands as people around them halted in their tracks, heads turning as Bridget’s impassioned voice rang out clearly.

“‘He was hard. Harder than the horns of a dragon in heat. Harder than the roughest stone hewn from Orzammar. He wanted her. No, he needed her, to be surrounded by her velveteen warmth and to lose himself in the saccharine taste of her perfect lips. He lowered his head as a pilgrim does to their altar, preparing to devour the holy feast lain out before him.’”

“I’m literally begging you to stop.”

“I’ll stop if you sign it for me and then I will never speak of this again.” 

Varric’s glare was half hearted and mostly full of defeat. He sighed a sigh that spoke of the weight of the world on his shoulders, grabbed the book from Bridget’s hands, scribbling something on inside of the front cover with the quill he apparently carried at all times, and shoved it back at her like it was on fire.

“Always a pleasure to go above and beyond for an adoring fan,” he muttered derisively, pinching the bridge of his broken nose. “I’m going to go drink myself into a stupor now that you’ve shamed me so publicly. Please don’t let anyone know I actually signed that copy for you.”

“Signed what copy?” The book was back safely in the confines of her cloak and Bridget folded her hands in front of her neatly, an innocent smile on her face.

Varric sighed the despondent sigh again and continued his journey to the tavern, snow crunching beneath his boots. Bridget followed at his side, the innocent smile transformed into a vicious grin of victory, arm slung over his (arguably much shorter) shoulders as they entered the bustling bar.

“Drinks on me tonight!”

“Last I checked, Princess, you weren’t getting an Inquisition stipend, so you don’t actually have any money.”

“...just kidding, drinks are on Varric!”

\---

Bridget woke up shortly after the sun rose.

She had only spent enough time in the tavern the night before to eat, learn of the horrendous time Dorian and Sera had in the Fallow Mire, and try some Rivaini brandy (which wasn’t as bad as Ferelden piss-ale, but nothing in Thedas held a candle to Malibu and pineapple juice). Afterwards she went on a search for Blackwall and Garahel, finding them settling down in a new and slightly larger tent just offshooting the stables. There was room for the growing griffon to sleep in a stall but, being the spoiled baby that he was, Garahel refused to be anywhere away from Blackwall’s side. Which included sleeping, apparently.

Bridget knew how he felt though her plight went down an adjacent path. It took everything in her not to suggest sharing Pookie’s stall with the two of them. But she kept her mouth shut, not wanting to put Blackwall in a precarious situation. 

She’d had no intention of accompanying Vazrah and the mages to seal the Breach, especially because Solas was supposed to have joined them to act as a guide for the ritual. Hope ensured her that the elf would say nothing of her otherworldly origins. Bridget didn’t ask what they’d been talking about with the “old wolf” and “fall of Arlathan” nonsense. She didn’t really want to know.

She stretched her arms above her head and yawned as she stepped out of the stables, brushing hay out of her hair. The Breach actually looked pretty in the early morning light; the sunlight filtered through the green eldritch monstrosity to make oddly pastel beams that shimmered through pale clouds. It reminded her of pistachio fluff cake.

An odd pang of homesickness hit Bridget at the thought. She ignored it, even though the memory of the taste made her mouth water.

She was about to go and see if Blackwall was awake when a tugging at the ends of her mind caught her attention, like the vast thunder of the storm and the smooth song of Hope’s laughter.

Something out in the forests beyond Haven was calling to her.

Hope felt it too. “I don’t know what that is,” she informed Bridget with a quiet apprehension as the young woman rushed back to the stables, saddling Pookie up as quick as possible. “It’s somehow familiar. But yet...it seems wrong. I don’t know why.”

“What’s the harm in checking it out?” Bridget pulled herself up onto Pookie’s back, giving the nuggalope a nudge in the flank. He snorted and lumbered out into the snow, ears flicking disdainfully at the chill. “Maybe it’s something from my world. Or someone. And that’s why it feels familiar?”

“Perhaps…” Hope agreed reluctantly, crawling out from her hiding spot and perching on Bridget’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t you bring Blackwall along, just in case?”

Bridget had Pookie trot over to the tent Blackwall and Garahel were using. She heard two sets of snoring and it was almost impossible to discern what belonged to the man and what belonged to the griffon. 

_Like father, like son. Even if they aren’t the same species._

“Nah, we’ll be fine, and they need their beauty sleep,” she chuckled as she urged Pookie on to the gate. Once they exited Haven, Pookie began to gallop as best as a chunky nuggalope could, Bridget leading him with the reins in the direction she felt the uncanny pull on her consciousness. 

It was pleasantly silent in the pine forest that surrounded the pilgrimage site; the sun gleamed through the dripping icicles and bathed everything in an ethereal translucence. She could definitely live here, Bridget decided as Pookie ambled along. Not at Haven—but out in the forest, in a nice log cabin like the one Blackwall had been in when they first met. Up in the mountains, in the cold, where no one would bother her. Well, no one that she wouldn’t want to be bothered by. There were exceptions.

The stronger the pull felt, the more reluctant Pookie was to move forward. When the pull felt like it was surrounding her, halted in his tracks so fast Bridget almost flew forward in the saddle. He scraped his horns against the trunk of a pine tree and refused to walk again, pawing at the snow and bellowing in fear, the whites of his eyes showing.

“What’s wrong with him?” Bridget asked Hope as she hopped off and tried to calm the nuggalope down with pats and some carrots she had stolen from the tavern. Pookie was having none of it, throwing his head to and fro.

“Whatever we are feeling, he can feel to some degree as well, and it’s frightening him. It’d be best to leave him here.”

She nodded in agreement and tied his reins to a sturdy branch of a pine tree, making sure there was plenty of grass underneath the snow. She gave him a farewell pat on the rump and drew her cloak closer to her, walking forward on her own feet.

The pull began to feel more like a song when the trees started to thin out. Like Hope’s voice in her mind, only a much more primitive growl rather than her gentle aria. It filled her to the brim. It was different from when everyone’s thoughts and emotions in Haven were overcoming her. It was like...when she had jumped, and was content the let the water carry her wherever.

When Bridget stepped out into a clearing amongst the pines, there was a dragon in the middle.

She didn’t realize it was a dragon until it lifted its head from the druffalo corpse it was gorging on and stared at her with crimson eyes. Its body was...wrong. Emaciated. Bulbous masses of flesh which glowed an angry red were rose up underneath its scales. Rusty chains and manacles stuck into its skin around its serpentine neck and around its paws, some of its flesh scabbed and growing over the metals. It smelled like rotten meat and gangrene. The tip of its tail was broken off sharp bone protruded from the obviously infected wound. The dragon gave off an overwhelming heat; where it lay curled on the ground, all the snow had melted away and instead the beast was in a puddle of mud. The wings were haggard and ripped. An ugly cut ran across its mutilated face, pulsing with odd red crystals. When it opened its maw and hissed, its fangs were covered with the same red crystals and its tongue was black like a mass of dead flesh.

Hope’s alarm was colder than the winter mountain chill as she trembled on Bridget’s shoulder. “What has happened to you?” she whispered in a hoarse voice.

Bridget stepped back a little when the zombie-looking dragon rose to its feet, hissing again and staring at her with diseased red eyes. The smell was overwhelming and she clamped a hand over her mouth and nose, trying not to puke. It drew its head up and for a moment she feared it was about to spew something at her, like rotten acid or dead people parts, rather than the usual fire one expected from a dragon.

But instead the dragon’s hiss morphed into what could only be a whimper and it collapsed back onto the ground, strange red fluid leaking out of its jaws. Bridget knew it wasn’t blood because it looked chunky, and glowed the same way the scarlet crystals poking out of its body did.

“What is this?” she asked Hope in as calm a voice as possible, edging just close enough to the ghastly creature that she could hear its labored breathing.

“I...I don’t know,” Hope admitted, her claws digging into Bridget’s shoulder. “It’s a dragon. Or, it was. But now it’s corrupted somehow.”

Bridget swallowed the lump in her throat and straightened her posture, cautiously drawing her staff and holding it with a white knuckle grip. It wasn’t attacking. It just gazed at them silently, dripping that viscous and rank goo onto the druffalo corpse. The places where it hit began to sizzle and the rotting stench intensified as the red stuff ate away at the dead flesh, revealing bone and organs. 

She was was trying really hard not to puke.

“Was it you that we felt?”

The dragon hissed again and the guttural tempo of the pull flared in her mind like a million fireworks. She groaned and clasped her head, staggering somewhat.

_Pain._

The word cut across her consciousness. It wasn’t a voice, like Hope speaking to her over their bond, or really a word even, but rather the actual manifestation of a feeling. It gripped her heart with its talons and refused to let go.

_Underground. Red things. Pain. Hot. Human who is not human. Nest and eggs, broken, gone, crushed. Cannot disobey. Cannot run. Red things inside, hot hot hot._

_P A I N._

Bridget nearly fell to her knees as shattered images crashed into her brain, too jumbled to make any real sense out of them. She let out a cry of her own as the dragon groaned and growled. She saw a face flash before her eyes, ugly and contorted with similar red growths as the dragon’s, and a man’s voice shouting over and over again about too many things she didn’t understand.

“Please, no more,” she gasped out as she lunged towards the dragon, ignoring the foul odor and the threat of being mauled to death. She placed her hands on the nearest forelimb, repressing a shudder when the scaly flesh rippled hotly beneath her palm. It felt like something else was alive under there; an alien parasite that was eating away inside. “It’s too much. I-I’m sorry, but it’s too much for me.”

Just like that, everything stopped.

A low rumble from the dragon’s throat caused Bridget to look up. It was staring at where her hands were on its forelimb, as if it couldn’t comprehend the touch. “Ah, fuck, sorry!” She quickly pulled away, stepping back a foot or so. It hissed again, but it wasn’t menacing in the least. 

“Can you understand us?” Hope asked from Bridget’s shoulder. The dragon bobbed its head up and down in a crude struggle of a nod. “But you can’t actually speak, can you?” A bastardization of a shaken head was the answer.

“Are you going to attack us?” Bridget questioned warily, but she somehow knew the answer was no even before the dragon shook its head again. It looked so pathetic in that moment—the way it curled in on itself, breath wheezing out of its rotten fangs, the flaps of skin on its torn wings fluttering weakly in the breeze...this was a broken thing, and nothing like the fearsome dragons of legend. 

She wanted to help it. She just didn’t know how.

“I can go to Haven and find some food and water, maybe some medicine for your, uh, wounds.” She wasn’t sure if the lesions weeping red were normal wounds that could be treated with normal medicine. The abnormal heat they gave off was unnerving. “Can you stay here and wait?”

It let out a wheezing whimper and stretched its misshapen head towards her, crimson eyes almost pleading. Before she could stop herself, she was caressing the scaly cheek closest to her, wincing as the flesh was nearly scalding. She avoided touching the red crystal-like growths. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” she murmured soothingly, the way she would coax a stray dog to her. “I’ll come back. I don’t understand what happened to you, but I know it’s bad, and I’m not just going to let you suffer in pain like this.”

Suddenly, she heard the sound of boots on snow and something rustling in the trees. Both her and the dragon whipped their heads towards the direction of the sound and there was a flash of something black and yellow amongst the pine branches, disappearing into the forest. The dragon growled, a deep and threatening noise like a car crash.

Everything kind of went to shit then, and the strange disturbance was completely forgotten.

The sky above them imploded. The massive green swirl of the Breach diminished with a loud thunderous boom into nothing but a pale mist of a much lighter color. Bridget felt a rush of magic surround her in a forceful embrace, like she was standing on the roof of a skyscraper during a tornado. The dragon’s body shuddered and it made a horrible sound deep in its throat; a roar of pure anguish. It spread its shredded wings, the force of its sudden movement knocking her to the ground. Impossibly, it launched itself into the air, rising above the trees with obvious effort and disappearing into the sky before Bridget could get back on her feet.

“...well, it seems the mages have succeeded in sealing the Breach.” Hope broke the silence, her voice teeming with regret. “That poor creature...I tried to make sense of what it was showing us, but it was too fragmented.”

“We need to get back to Haven,” Bridget said quietly, staring at the spot in the sky where the dragon had vanished into the clouds. “I think the dragon was connected to the Breach somehow. The magic the Breach gives off, the pull it used to get us here, it all felt strangely similar. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“I thought I was a fairly intelligent being who understood much of this world. This damned Breach is making me question that,” Hope muttered disdainfully, scowling at nothing in particular.

“Aw, you don’t want to learn like the rest of us non-omnipotent folk?” Bridget teased, even though her heart wasn’t really into it. She was too shaken up about the zombie dragon and the weird red crystals. Which she just realized were eerily similar to the red lyrium that Vazrah had described in her report of the dark future. It seemed like such an insignificant detail that she had filed it away to be forgotten. If the dragon had gotten infected with it, then…

“We shouldn’t tell anyone about this,” Hope advised as Bridget began to make her way back towards where she had tied up Pookie. 

“Are you sure? I mean, a sick dragon this close to Haven is kind of a big deal,” she pointed out.

“It would lead to chaos. People in this age don’t trust things they do not fully understand. Dragons, whether they are sick or not, are one of those things. If we discuss what we saw, then someone might try to kill the poor thing. I cannot let that happen.”

“I see your point,” Bridget conceded quietly. “I still want to find a way to help it, though.”

She rounded a set of trees and found Pookie calm and content, nibbling on bits of grass and a giant pinecone that he must have found on the ground. She mounted the nuggalope and steered him back towards Haven, unable to shake the uneasy feeling from inside her heart. Hope was right about keeping quiet in order to prevent some kind of mob mentality. The dragon hadn’t attacked her; it had done the opposite, really, and somehow had called her to it for help. But was it really the right thing to do? 

_Hope hasn’t steered me wrong yet. I just hope this doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass._

When they emerged from the forest path, a long line of mages and other Inquisition officials were trailing into the gates from the opposite direction, towards where the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the Breach once had been located up in the mountains. Crowds of pilgrims and soldiers and scouts cheered them on as they filed in one by one, Vazrah leading them all with a victorious smirk. 

Obviously, Bridget wasn’t going to stride in along side with them like a hero herself, so she bade Pookie to come to a halt and they watched the group slowly dissipate into Haven. Considering almost all the mages wore hooded robes, it kind of looked like a group of monks attending their daily prayer in their Romanian monastery.

Once the crowds and Breach-sealers were all gone, Bridget led Pookie back inside the gates, whistling inconspicuously and praying that no one was going to run up to her and ask where she’d been. She was getting Pookie settled back in his stall, munching on a fresh batch of hay and assorted vegetables, when her soul flared with warmth. She turned around to see Blackwall and Garahel (who looked even bigger than he had yesterday, somehow) walking towards her with a purposeful stride.

Bridget wanted to race to them and dump everything about the dragon at their faces but a sense of warning from Hope over their bond stopped her.

“Out for a ride, were you?” Blackwall asked when he approached, brows furrowed in concern. “Some of the mages who remained here say that when the Breach was sealed, their magic felt strange. Were you affected as well?”

“O-oh, yeah, I felt it, but it’s fine,” she stammered, clearing her throat multiple times as she smacked shame and guilt away. “I just needed some fresh air, so I took Pookie out for a quick run around the woods. I saw Vazrah leading a victory parade of mages back into Haven just now,” she said as she quickly changed the subject for fear of blabbing about the dragon. “Is there gonna be a big party now that the Breach is taken care of?”

If Blackwall noticed how antsy she was, he didn’t say anything about it. “I imagine. It’s a grand thing, sealing the Breach. The Inquisition deserves a little celebration for all their hard work.” 

Garahel was already practically drooling at his side, most likely fantasizing about all the food he was going to stuff down his gluttonous gullet. He chirped eagerly, rump wriggling like a happy dog. Blackwall chuckled and ruffled the feathers along his neck affectionately. 

“I should see if there’s anything I can do to help,” Bridget mused thoughtfully. “I mean, I obviously can’t make cocktail weenies in this world but I’m sure there’s something I’ll be able to figure out. Like bread. Lots and lots of bread.”

“Oh, have you seen Commander Cullen at all today?” Blackwall asked before she started heading towards the tavern, frowning slightly. “I wanted to ask him some questions about the troops but I can’t seem to find him, and none of the other soldiers have seen him since yesterday.”

“No, I haven’t. Not that I usually look for him,” she muttered. “Maybe he’s off in the woods having a tantrum that it’s the mages who helped the Inquisition and not his beloved, abusive Templars.”

“I know you aren’t overly fond of him, but he is a good commander. The Inquisition’s militia would be lost without his orders. It has been frustrating that he’s unable to put his personal feelings of mages aside, I will give you that.” He sighed, shaking his head. 

She didn’t want to talk about Cullen anymore. It was making her skin crawl, remembering the hate she felt upon their first meeting.

“Later, dude. I’m gonna go attempt to make a Thedas version of jalapeño poppers. But it’ll probably just be baked potatoes with goat cheese stuffed in the middle.” She waved goodbye before he could say anything more, guilt gnawing at her for brushing him aside. But she had been avoiding another breakdown since the initial arrival to Haven, and she wanted to keep it that way.

\---

Thedosians really knew how to party.

Not that Bridget had ever really attended one before, being the socially inept lazy piece of shit she was. 

It was evening. Many people were intoxicated. Many more were still working their way up to an inebriated state. There was dancing (which was mostly in the form of Irish hugs and other folky stuff), singing, and merriment all around. The tavern’s kitchen staff had kicked her out after the third pot of water boiled out because she was too busy gawking at some of the very attractive serving girls, so Bridget never did have the chance to make medieval fantasy jalapeño poppers.

She sat by a fire near the chantry, away from most of the yelling and laughter. It was just a little too much for her to handle. 

Garahel was laying at her side in a food coma, drowsily watching as various people raced by with flushed faces and carefree smiles. Blackwall was somewhere down amongst the crowds speaking to Cullen—who had showed up as if he had never been gone at all and of course no one questioned him about his whereabouts—and Vazrah was off with Josephine and Cassandra balancing politics and partying. She didn’t know where Leliana was. Probably somewhere in the shadows, watching everything with those hawk-like eyes.

“You know…” Bridget sighed as she scratched Garahel’s ear, glancing up at the sparkling night sky. “It’s been one hell of a ride for me these last couple of months. I jumped, I came to an entirely other world, learned I have magic, met someone really special—that’s your dad, by the way—and now here I am.”

She gestured to all of Haven emphatically. “Being the weird kid who just hangs out in the corner at parties avoiding everyone. Some things never change. But hey! Least I got you, Garahel. And Hope.” 

The dragon in question poked her head out from her pocket. “You _could_ go and socialize, you know. Varric’s there. And Bull. Dorian. Sera. Plenty of people who wouldn’t mind talking to you. Maybe even some of the mages; you’ve never really spoken with any of them, and I’m sure they would be good company.”

“I know,” Bridget acquiesced with a groan, sliding down onto the snowy ground to lay next to Garahel and bury her face in his fluffy scruff. “Here I’m not Bridget, the history major with crippling depression and anxiety who knows way too many fun facts about Pokémon. Here I’m Bridget, the accidental mage with crippling depression and anxiety who once got so high she wanted to hug a bear. I know I should really put myself into the Inquisition and just...embrace the opportunity I’ve been given to really make a new life for myself.”

“But…?” Hope prompted gently.

“But I’m scared.” The reply came out muffled against Garahel’s fur and feathers. “I’ve never been good with making friends. And the few I do make always leave, because I usually end up fucking it up or it turns out they were just using me. And yeah, Vazrah’s been great and of course Blackwall has been...Blackwall.” She cleared her throat. “But seeing everyone come together like this, it hurts. Because they all have something in common. They're _from_ Thedas. And I’m not. And it’s so exhausting having to constantly hide it.”

Bridget bit the inside of her cheek to keep her voice calm and steady. Just this morning she had prided herself in avoiding breakdowns. Yet this one was creeping up on her faster than expected.

“It just sucks because even if someone tells me that yeah, it’s all good, I belong here, I can’t believe them and think they’re pretending. I just _can’t_. Because I’ve got a fucked up brain that’s deficient in certain chemicals and I don’t have any of my medication here. I want to go back to the Storm Coast,” she sniffed, eyes feeling hot and prickly. “It was better there. But you already know all this because you’re my emotional support dragon and basically omniscient when it comes to my thoughts and emotions.”

“Yes, but voicing it aloud helps ease the pain, even if it’s just a little.” Hope pressed against her, sending a gentle and calming warmth through her body. 

“I just want to be alone,” Bridget admitted in a quivering voice, removing her face from Garahel’s fluff just in case she was about to snot all over his beautiful feathers. “I hated the apartment and everyone living in it, but at least there I could lock my door and turn the lights off and play Overwatch until I passed out.”

“But did that truly make you happy?”

Hope’s question was like a knife to the gut.

Because she was right. It didn’t.

“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like,” Hope continued in a lilting voice like velvet, “because those things will eventually lead to what is good for our wellbeing. You don’t want to branch out within the Inquisition because of your fear of being abandoned, but retreating into a locked room isn’t healthy either. There must be a balance between the two.”

“Fuck, man,” Bridget sniffled again and wiped the beginnings of tears away from her eyes. “You’re a much better therapist than Amanda. She mostly dealt with children whose parents were getting divorced, not suicidal college graduates. When I started talking about the heavy shit she would clam up and not know what to say or do.”

“Well, my name _is_ Hope. It’s what I was born to do.”

Whatever Bridget was going to say in answer was lost in a bout of alarm screams from the party down by the gates and a sense of alarm that ripped through her like a hurricane. She was on her feet in moments looking in the direction of the shouts, and what she saw was horrifying.

Beyond Haven, coming down the various mountain and forest paths, were great long lines of torches held by hundreds of people. 

She somehow knew they weren’t here for the party. 

“Shit,” she swore under her breath as she grabbed Mjölnir from where it lay resting against a log, hauling Garahel to his paws. “Go find Blackwall,” she ordered and the griffon nodded, scampering off as quickly as he could. Which was slightly sluggish due to the buffet he had devoured only an hour before.

“Those are Templars,” Hope told her quietly as she slid back into her hiding place. Bridget knew. She could feel their hatred and rage even from this far away, burning red and hot and smelling like sulfur. 

But it wasn’t geared just towards mages. It was pure malice and loathing for everyone and everything. 

Bridget ran to the gates, pushing through throngs of panicking and half-drunk people. “Get to the chantry!” someone was yelling above the loud masses. “It will be your shelter!” 

The smell of liquor and campfire smoke was overwhelming within the crowd. When she finally made it through the sea of terrified civilians and Inquisition agents alike, she breathed a sigh of relief at the clear air and the lack of someone pushing and shoving against her. A small crowd had gathered at the open gates—Vazrah, Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, and a wiry boy a little younger than her in ragged clothes and a weird-ass hat who she didn’t recognize. 

“People are coming to hurt you,” the boy was saying fretfully, holding two bloody daggers in trembling hands. He was looking straight at Vazrah. “The Templars come to kill you.”

“Templars?!” Cullen literally pushed Vazrah aside and towered above the young man, scowling as his hand gripped his sword as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world. “Is this the Order’s response to our alliance with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One,” the boy explained, ignoring Cullen and still focusing on Vazrah. “You know him; he knows you. You took his mages. Look there.”

He pointed. Bridget followed his finger to a small hill overlooking the frozen lake and even with the distance, she recognized the figure standing on the rocks. 

It was the person the diseased dragon had shown her.

He was tall, impossibly so, like someone had stretched his body and warped it beyond all imagining. Nothing like the natural height and girth of a qunari. His face was scarred and puckered with red growths marring the entire left side, growing out of his skin the way the red crystals had grown out of the dragon’s. His frame was skeletal and his hands were large and clawed. He wore some kind of decaying robe that looked like it had fused to his flesh. The animosity dripping off of him was worse than Cullen and the other Templars combined. 

Bridget almost doubled over and threw up with how the fury twisted into her head like a poisoned blade, a migraine exactly like the one she’d gotten when the Breach first appeared.

The pain was so intense she didn’t hear what the boy said to Vazrah next. But suddenly there were hands on her shoulders, shaking her, and she blinked back into reality. “Bridget,” Vazrah was saying quickly, looking pale and like she wanted to throw up herself. “We’re going to fight to protect Haven from these Red Templars and whatever the fuck their Elder One is. Will you come join us?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered, trying to calm her breathing. 

The next fifteen minutes passed in a blur of commands. 

Bridget was at the trebuchets that overlooked one of the paths that cut along the lake and up into the mountains. Vazrah stood near her, accompanied by Cassandra, Sera, and Vivienne; they were adorn in armor and battle clothes. Everyone else was busy evacuating Haven, including Blackwall. Bridget wanted to be selfish and run to help him. But Vazrah had asked her to come with, and if she was going to start working on actively being a better friend, then helping to prevent a possible massacre of innocent people was definitely the way to do it.

The Red Templars advanced onto Haven’s sacred ground, and Bridget resisted a shudder as she called out to the storm and watched the tip of Mjölnir spark to life with lightning.

“Keep the them off us while we set the trebuchet up!” one of the soldiers called out to the group as she and a couple of others scurried around the unwieldy wooden contraption, obviously trying not to panic.

“Right, you lot, I’ll cover your arses from behind,” Sera snickered as she stepped back a few feet, aiming her bow at the first line of Red Templars that were quickly coming their way. 

“Don’t let them flank you!” Cassandra called out, coming in front of the three mages and archer with her shield drawn. “We don’t know what these Red Templars can do, but I am certain their abilities are more dangerous than normal ones.”

“And yet we have three mages against them. Smart,” Bridget muttered to no one in particular.

“My dear, I believe we can combine our spells and take care of these ruffians with ease,” Vivienne sniffed disdainfully as she addressed Vazrah, looking far more prim and proper than someone about to engage in a battle should. “Would you do me the honor?”

The Red Templars rushed up the embankment at that precise moment. They looked like the sick dragon and the Elder One; crimson veins running through sickly translucent and red crystals protruding from their flesh and armor. Their eyes were like burning coals through the slits in their helmets. One raised their sword and ran forward towards Cassandra with an almost inhuman cry, but immediately fell to the ground before they could even get close. There was an arrow embedded in their neck between the helmet and the armor and Sera gave a whoop of triumph from behind.

The battle officially began, and Bridget lost herself in the adrenaline. 

Cassandra parried and slashed with an elegance like She-Ra, scowling as she cut down Templar after Templar with ease. It was terrifying. And kinda hot. 

Vazrah’s magic was aggressive and destructive as flames ate away at armor, even more impressive than the time at Redcliffe. Vivienne’s movements were dignified as she created ice shards in the air and sent them at Templars in graceful arcs, like a swan in winter. It made Bridget feel like the ugly duckling as she formed nets of electricity and entrapped the Templars where they stood, allowing Sera to rain arrows down on them ruthlessly. 

A paranoid ugly duckling, desperate to pretend that she’d always had magic and always knew what she was doing with it.

The storm called to her from where it existed beyond, promising that if she let herself go that it would take care of everything and make it an impressive show. Bridget wanted to give in. It was almost as tempting as the jump had been. But no; she had to do this herself, and not rely completely on the storm, because that would be cheating.

Just as she was about to conjure a lightning bolt and send it into the swarm of Red Templars, a terrified squeal interrupted her spellcasting. Bridget’s head shot to the right and she saw Pookie racing blindly from the direction in which the stables were, blood running down his flank as a very large and bulky Templar in thick armor lumbered after him with a greatsword that could cut an elephant in half.

Bridget saw red, and it wasn’t from the corrupted lyrium.

She raced towards the injured nuggalope as sparks flew from her fingertips, swirling into storm clouds that formed into the two thunder wolves, Gale and Tempest. Even sober she wasn’t sure which was which. She passed a body belonging to one of Leliana’s scouts (she didn’t remember watching the man die) and before she knew it, she swiped a knife from his belt. 

Pookie disappeared into the rest of Haven just the Templar swung his greatsword at the poor thing, getting the blade stuck in the snow and mud. Bridget took the opportunity and grabbed it by the balls.

She sent a silent command to Gale and Tempest and the wolves flanked the huge bastard on either side, sinking their magic fangs into the soft leather of his boots and yanking hard, snarling. He came down with a thud, crying out in a mixture of pain and confusion, reaching for the greatsword desperately. The wolves tore into the flesh of his ankles and kept him pinned to the ground, paralyzing him with their lightning essence as they whipped their heads back and forth as if wrestling with a rag doll. Bridget kicked off his helmet and his ugly face was drawn in utter terror, red eyes darting back and forth as his big hands twitched, a barely inaudible groan escaping his parted lips.

“ _No one_ ,” she snarled in a voice as beastlike as the wolves sunk their fangs deeper into him, “hurts an innocent animal when I’m around, you piece of fucking shit.”

Bridget brought the knife down into his throat with all the force she could muster, blood spurting from his arteries and spraying her across the face in a wet and sticky warmth. His body twitched in agony and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as she stabbed over and over and over again, even when she felt him die and the wolves dissipated back into a stormy mist. The blade sliced through his flesh like it was hot butter. But it wasn’t enough. He had to die again. She wanted to kill him again and again and again—

“Bridget, STOP.”

Hope’s voice from inside her cloak brought her back to reality. She crouched over the body, breathing heavily with blood splattered all over her, hands trembling. 

She remembered when she told Blackwall she would be fine with killing other people. She still believed it. But nonetheless, Bridget scrambled back from the body and dropped the knife into the snow, staining it with scarlet. The sounds of battle between the Inquisition and the Red Templars filled the air, buzzing in her brain. It was hard to breathe for a moment. She couldn’t stop clenching her teeth so tight it felt like her jaw would break.

“He’s dead.” She could scarcely believe that was her voice without weak and pathetic it sounded. “I killed him. I really killed him.” She stared at her bloody hands, a raspy laugh leaving her lips. “With my own hands, not with magic.”

“Yes, you did,” Hope affirmed quietly, sending her familiar comforting waves through Bridget’s soul. But the adrenaline tore it apart, turning it into a rush of energy. 

There were shouts from the trebuchet and the sound of rope and wires snapping. Bridget glanced over, kill momentarily forgotten, to see a massive burning clump of explosives flying through the air and sailing right into the side a mountain. 

Snow and ice and rocks and bits of mountain tumbled down into an impressive avalanche, devouring the lines of torches and the Red Templars that held them with it. The sound was deafening, like a dozen jets taking off during the Fourth of July. Cries and cheers went up from all of Haven, almost even more thunderous, and Vazrah’s group stood tall and proud near the trebuchet.

None of them had even realized she’d run off. 

Bridget knew she shouldn’t be bitter, considering this was a life or death situation, but it didn’t stop the thorns from creeping into her heart.

But then she heard it. A hissing roar, far above them, and the sound of wings beating the air. A bolt of something bright and glowing a deadly red crashed into the trebuchet and sent it shattering into a million splinters. The dragon from the woods soared dangerously close to the ground, the crimson flames (it wasn’t fire, really, but she didn’t know how else to describe it) spewing from its mouth with a sound like shattered glass. There were more red crystals growing along its malnourished hide and the tip of its tail was completed covered it in, no longer showing white bone. One of its horns, which had looked infected that morning, was completely broken off. 

“Oh, fuck me.” Bridget wiped her hands off in the snow and forced herself to her feet, ducking behind a cluster of boulders as Vazrah and company rushed past her and towards Haven, obviously forgetting that she had been originally part of the trebuchet defense program. 

“So, the dragon is most assuredly infected with red lyrium, and it’s probably gone insane from it,” Hope spoke conversationally, but Bridget felt her horror and revulsion like it was her own. Probably because in a way, it was.

“God…” Bridget clutched her staff so tightly she wondered if she could snap the wooden handle in too for a brief moment. “We could have helped it! W-we could have...no, we still can. Right?” The word was almost frantic as she started to sift through all the magic and knowledge of Thedas she’d gained since arriving.

But no. Nothing jumped out at her. Except to kill the poor creature and put it out of its misery, but Bridget couldn’t bring herself to even consider that as an option. It hadn’t asked for this to happen to it. It deserved a chance to be whole again.

“Hope, is there _anything_ we can do?”

“As we are now? No, I don’t believe there is. But perhaps someday, if we learn more of this red lyrium and its corruption, then we will be able to find a way to save the dragon.” Hope sighed and nudged her with her tail. “We should get back to Haven; it’s not safe outside the walls.”

“No. I’m going to talk to the dragon.” Bridget stubbornly shook her head as she looked up at the sky, where the beast was swirling in circles like a vulture and spewing forth more of that strange lyrium fire, turning the forge and the stables into nothing but cinders. 

“You’re going to _what_?”

“I just want to get it to calm down and stop attacking things,” she explained hurriedly as she glanced around for any sign of Red Templars or Inquisition members. Seeing none, she rushed through snow and dead bodies, ignoring the growing inferno licking at her heels from the multitude of burning buildings. The heat was nothing compared to what the dragon had felt beneath its skin in the images it had showed her.

There was another trebuchet tucked against a cliff right at the end of Haven’s walls. It was isolated from almost everything else meaning it would be difficult for anyone to find her.

Bridget selfishly considered reaching across her weird bond with Blackwall and calling him to her. But it would be wrong to do such a thing, especially if he was busy with helping the people of Haven. 

_I hope he doesn’t hate me for the fact that I enjoyed killing that Templar. I won’t lie to him about it. I keep too much from him as is._

She reached out with her magic and pushed at the dragon’s consciousness, letting it know exactly where she was at. A red tide of pain and hatred met her and pushed back, snarling in the back of her mind. Beneath it all, however, she felt it: a desperate plea for help.

The dragon turned from its aerial destruction of Haven and dropped down towards her. It landed with a heavy thud, shaking the ground Bridget was standing on. The heat from the lyrium embedded in its body immediately beginning to melt the snow it was standing on. Its upper lip curled in a silent snarl as it stared down at her, fangs bared and body tense. The wings were no longer as ripped as they were in the morning, but there were still tiny holes all over the leathery material.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bridget said slowly, putting her staff on the ground and holding her hands up. “I still want to help, okay?”

The dragon didn’t smell as strongly as rotting carrion anymore. It was more like a massive burning body pit. She didn’t know which scent was worse.

It growled low in its throat, talons digging into the ground and tail swishing back and forth dangerously. Bridget stepped forward slightly, hands still raised, swallowing nausea and fear down. “You don’t have to do this. We’ll find a way to get that lyrium out of you. Is this Elder One the person who did this to you?”

The dragon’s growling and snarls quieted down and its head slumped, crimson eyes gazing at her hopelessly. It whimpered once, shaking its head as if trying to get rid of a swarm of flies. 

**She’s trying to break free from the red lyrium’s control.**

Hope spoke to her over their bond, shameful and furious. 

**This dragon was a high dragon once; only females can become high dragons. I think I understand some of the images she was showing us now. The Elder One destroyed her eggs to control her and then implanted the lyrium inside her, enchanting it with some kind of spell to ensure her obedience.**

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” Bridget whispered hoarsely. “That bastard will pay. I promise. I’ll go kill him, right now, and then we’ll—”

“Step away from the monster!”

Bridget whipped her head around, startled by the unexpected voice. 

Cullen stood behind her with a wicked-looking sword drawn, his eyes somewhat manic and usually perfect hair mussed up. His face was flushed with sweat and his mouth was curved into a snarl of his own, body in a position that was clearly ready to attack at any moment. 

“I knew it,” he barked out, taking one menacing step forward. “You’ve been in liege with this Elder One the entire time, haven’t you?”

“What?!” Bridget gaped at the man before her, unable to believe his complete stupidity. “Why the fuck would I be?!”

“I followed you into the woods this morning. You were speaking to this...this _thing_ , and here you are with it once more as Haven burns from its breath. You infiltrated the Inquisition so you could plan this attack!” Cullen advanced a few more steps and the dragon behind her growled a warning, suddenly swiping a limb out and pulling Bridget towards her. She appreciated the protective gesture, but it wasn’t really helping her case.

“I’m trying to get the dragon to stop! That ugly bastard on the rocks is controlling her. I’ve never even met the guy!” Bridget yelled, anger rising as hot as the lyrium surrounding her. 

“Leliana and I have poured innumerable resources into finding out who you are. Yet we have found nothing. _Nothing._ ” Cullen hissed. “No mention of a mage matching your description in any Circle. The Herald was supposed to question you, but the ox is too soft concerning her fellow mages and has refused!”

The word “mages” was spat out with bitter contempt just as he stomped on her staff from where it lay in the snow, and she heard a resounding crack.

 _That fucker just broke Mjölnir. Oh my god. I wanna kill him even more now._

“I should have taken the matter into my own hands weeks ago. No, when you first arrived!” He was too close now, his rage emanating off of him in unstable waves. Bridget stepped closer to the dragon unconsciously. “If the Inquisition had allied with the Order, none of this would have happened. All you mages are the same...you lie and corrupt everyone you touch, all for the sake of power.”

“Listen, Cullen, I don’t like you and you don’t like me, but I swear I had nothing to do with this!” Bridget exclaimed quickly, trying to remain calm and not let the anger within her break free. “You haven’t found anything on me because I haven’t always been a mage! I haven’t always been…here!” She gestured around ambiguously. 

But he wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were fever bright with conviction and hatred. She caught the whisper of something from his mind, breaking away from all of the rancor and contempt; like a dying bird, begging him with feeble peeps to not give in. The last of his rationality? The final speck of compassion buried within his withering heart?

Bridget reached out and grasped that feather of sanity with her magic and asked it to show her what had caused Cullen to be so wrathful towards mages. 

It poured into her like the summary on the inner flap of a book cover. How he had once been assigned to kill mages who had failed their Harrowing. How he had been trapped at a mage Tower long ago, tortured by demons. The trauma of watching his fellow Templars die to corrupted mages who were abusing their power. How the war began in Kirkwall. The atrocities committed against mages by Templars who were just as power hungry, and his commander Meredith’s descent into madness from the red lyrium.

And Cullen did nothing to help the innocent mages who suffered at the hands of his companions, because deep down he wanted them all to burn.

It sucked. Bridget couldn’t imagine the horrors he must have witness at the Circle Tower of Kinloch Hold. 

But it didn’t give him an excuse to ignore the plight of the innocent, and it certainly didn’t give him the right to act as if the Templars were the true champions of the just when so many of them were just as full of scorn and spite as he was.

Bridget let the memories go before she invaded any more on his privacy. He showed no signs of even being aware of the magic she had used to sift through his mind, even though she knew his Templar abilities would have alerted him. Cullen was simply that far gone, and it was heartbreaking.

She hated him, but she hated what had led him to become like this even more.

“This farce has gone on long enough! You must be taken care of, here and now, and I’ll deliver your heart as proof of your treachery.” Cullen brandished his sword and turned on his heels, rushing forward like a flash of lightning.

It all happened so fast. 

Bridget would never understand why Cullen thought he could somehow stab her in the heart while she was hiding underneath a giant corrupted dragon who had regained some of its senses.

The lyrium dragon headbutted Bridget out of the way and snaked forward just as Cullen dashed towards them and her jaws closed around his shoulder, fangs cutting straight through his cloak and armor like they were nothing. He cried out in agony and there was a sizzling sound accompanied by the smell of burning flesh; the red lyrium flames dripped from the dragon’s mouth as she bit down through sinew and bone, eating away at his flesh. Horrified but also strangely fascinated, Bridget couldn’t look away.

“DAMN YOU!” Cullen screeched, slashing at the dragon with the sword as best he could, but the blade just thunked against her scales uselessly. “The Maker will reward me for my sacrifice when I go to His side! Let all know I gave my life to expose your treachery, you bitch!”

Bridget kept watching, holding a hand to her mouth and gripping Hope’s tail with the other shoved into her cloak pocket.

_He really thought he could go up against a dragon with just one sword. Oh, how the mighty fall._

“Magic exists to serve man,” the commander panted in anguish, eyes squeezed shut as his non-melting arm flung onto the dragon’s snout and his fingers dug into her nostrils. His hand began to glow a bright blue and Bridget sensed not magic but the complete opposite; a magic nullification of some kind. _The spell purging ability of Templars, she realized. Though it’s not going to do anything fast enough._

“But never to rule over him!”

Whatever fancy trick Cullen wanted to accomplish, it didn’t work, because the dragon’s jaws closed over his head. His screams were cut off abruptly the same time the dragon crunched down hard, and Bridget heard bones cracking and flesh tearing. She finally did look away, kneeling in the snow and retching all the stuff she had eaten at the party only hours before as the dragon had a feast of her own.

She couldn’t imagine it tasted any good.

Once done vomiting profusely, Bridget crawled on her hands and knees through the snow to her staff and picked it up in trembling hands. It was snapped in half, but the cluster of minerals at the top were unharmed. It was repairable. She tucked the pieces into her cloak, ripping the dragon scale off and tying it around her neck for safekeeping. 

_I hated him, but fuck, I didn’t expect that to happen_ , she sent to Hope with a shudder, shoveling clean snow in her mouth to get rid of the acrid flavor of vomit.

 **He was a man consumed by revenge. He would have broken eventually, being around so many mages. Don’t blame yourself** , the dragon replied grievously from her pocket.

Another unexpected voice cut through the roaring of the flames, the dragon ripping flesh and swallowing it down, and the screams of Haven. “Andraste’s tits, Bridget, what the fuck happened here?!”

It was Vazrah. Of course, she would be the one to find her like this. She was standing a few feet back, gazing up at the dragon in horror, eyes darting back and forth from Cullen’s mutilated corpse to Bridget herself. She immediately had her staff in her hand, the tip bursting with fire, lips moving rapidly as she chanted in Qunlat.

“No, don’t,” Bridget begged weakly, forcing herself to her feet and standing in front of the dragon with her arms spread wide, like they did in the movies when some rich asshole was about to bulldoze down some important city landmark.

“She was protecting me. Cullen was going to kill me, Vazrah. He thinks I did all of this. But I didn’t.” Her voice cracked on the last syllable, knees threatening to buckle and flinching every time she heard the dragon swallow another piece of the former Inquisition commander. “I swear to all the gods that have ever existed and to the gods that someday will come to be, I had nothing to do with anything involving the Elder One.”

They stared at one another with unreadable eyes, the trembling human girl and the unwavering qunari Herald.

And then Vazrah lowered her staff and rushed forward, pulling Bridget into a hug so tight she thought her ribs would crack under the pressure. “I know,” she whispered in a dread filled voice. “Leliana informed me of their suspicions about your origins. Or rather, lack thereof. I believe you, Bridget. But the rest of the Inquisition may not, especially if they…”

She trailed off, shrugging dejectedly as she nodded to the dragon and what was left of Cullen. It was rummaging through his armor like it was a taco shell, slurping up bloody intestines and other organs like gourmet pasta. Bridget wasn’t going to get the image out of her head for a very long fucking time. The special effects in all of the Jurassic Park movies had nothing on a dragon eating a man.

Vazrah shuddered and focused on Bridget’s face, hands clamped resolutely on her shoulders. “Forgive me for not realizing you weren’t with us earlier. It was such a blur when the dragon showed up, and I didn’t know you were gone until we returned to the chantry. Cullen said he was going to find you and drag you back; he was raving about how you were behind all this. I followed him because I feared what would happen to you.”

Vazrah glanced around at the burning buildings and dead bodies littering the snow, lips drawn in a thin line. “We need to leave, now. There’s a hidden escape route behind the chantry that leads through the Frostbacks. Haven is lost. We must protect those still with us.”

She looked so fierce and like a dragon herself as she spoke with utmost conviction. Bridget knew deep in her heart that Vazrah was what the Inquisition needed, now more than ever.

But she couldn’t answer the qunari, because from the flames of burning buildings, an immense and hulking figure began to saunter towards them. The dragon lurched back from Cullen’s body and let out a roar of pain, shaking her head wildly and stumbling along the snow.

“Enough.”

The voice that spoke was deep and guttural. It was a thing of nightmares. Worse than the shrieks of demons.

It was the Elder One.

He waved a lazy hand in the air and a strange red mist shot out, knocking Bridget down into the snow and wrapping around Vazrah like a chain, pulling him to her. The dragon snarled and her front leg pushed down on Bridget’s chest; it wasn’t a painful gesture, but the pressure was enough to keep her pinned down and the sharp talon was hovering just above her heart. The dragon’s gaze was cloudy and unseeing once again. She was back under the control of the lyrium and the bastard who forced it into her.

“Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken.” The Elder One grabbed Vazrah’s glowing hand and she cried out when his clawed fingers sunk into the flesh. “No more.” Bridget watched with horror as the green glow slowly began to spread to her wrist, lighting up her veins and turning them into emerald rivers flowing beneath her gray skin.

“I never wanted this!” Vazrah got out through gritted teeth, struggling in his grasp. “Take the fucking thing away!”

“What are you? Why are you doing this?” Bridget demanded from where she lay pinned down, trying really hard not to panic. They were going to die, probably. There was no way she and Vazrah could fight whatever the hell he was and the brainwashed lyrium dragon at the same time. 

“Know me. Know what you have pretended to be.” He growled, tightening his grip on Vazrah’s hand. “Exalt the Elder One. The will that is _Corypheus_!” 

“Damn, even his name is as ugly as he is,” Bridget muttered as she wriggled beneath the dragon’s claw, trying to send her consciousness up towards the poor creature and ask her to let go. But there was a crimson wall blocking her from even peeking in, and the door slammed shut on the fingers of her magic. She sucked in a breath and winced as her headache spiked again, biting her lower lip so hard she tasted coppery blood.

“I am here for the Anchor, and to be rid of you gnats.” Corypheus suddenly had a weird orb in his other hand and it sparked with sickly greens and angry reds. “The process of removing it begins now.” He brought the orb closer to Vazrah’s hand and she screamed in pain as the glow intensified to the point where Bridget had to close her eyes. “You interrupted a ritual years in the making,” he seethed. “Instead of dying, you frolic around the country, using its power. This is no boon from the Maker. It is magic of my own creation, meant to assault the very heavens.”

“Well, thank _fuck_ ,” Vazrah spat out through the agony, hand spasming and tears rolling down her face. “L-least I know...I’m not...some holy prophet!”

“You used the Anchor to undo my work,” Corypheus continued, because all villains need to drone on with endless monologues instead of just finishing what they started. “The gall you have…”

“What is this damned thing meant to do?” Vazrah grit her teeth in a challenge. 

“It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.” He put the orb directly onto Vazrah’s hand and this time the sound she made brought tears to Bridget’s eyes, because she was so helpless and was going to watch her friend die without being able to do anything.

 **I have a plan. It’s stupid. It’s risky. But it’s the only thing I can think of** , Hope hurriedly pronounced, her weight disappearing from Bridget’s pocket. **I will give you the ability to borrow my true form. I don't know how well your body will handle it. You could get hurt. Will you allow me to do this?**

Bridget didn’t really know what that meant, but it was better than nothing. “Hurry, please,” she whispered as she nodded her consent.

“I once breached the Fade in the name of another,” Corypheus was saying as Bridget felt Hope’s calming warmth envelope her entire body. “To serve the old gods of the Empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption! Dead whispers! For a thousand years, I was confused, but no more! I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own. The champion of Tevinter to correct this Blighted world.”

Bridget closed her eyes as Vazrah screamed again and there was another flash of sickly green. 

“Beg that I succeed. For I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.”

And then Bridget...changed.

She saw the stars, bright and welcoming; heard them whispering so many truths of the world that she lost herself in their song. In the distance, the colossal form of lightning and thunder that she had seen in her Griffon Dust dream, vaguely humanoid as it reached out with a hand formed of stardust and storms and brushed her forehead with the very tip of its forefinger. She felt her limbs grow and expand. She felt her neck stretching, bones cracking. Her skin melted and in its place something hard and chitin-like. Two bursts of pain from her back as something ripped through her flesh, and another wave of quick agony near her rear. She tasted ozone and blood on her tongue. She smelled everything. She saw colors that couldn’t possibly exist. 

Bridget glanced down and saw a reptilian limb covered with glittering scales the same indigo as the one on her staff, and sharp talons black as night. 

The lyrium dragon was on her side, a net of lightning covering her prone form and keeping her locked into place. Corypheus and Vazrah looked so small, like ants, as Bridget towered above them and opened her jaw wide, letting a roar that shook the heavens slip past her fangs. 

She swiped as Corypheus with a clawed paw and grabbed the now-unconscious Vazrah from him, her wings covering the qunari protectively as she snarled and snapped her jaws near his disgusting head. 

“ **I’m going to kill you for hurting her** ,” she vowed in a language she knew no one alive would be able to decipher, and spun around so that her muscular tail slammed into him and sent him flying into a pile of burning debris. 

Bridget turned her attention to the mountains surrounding them and opened her jaws again, taking a deep breath and summoning the storm that was swirling within her chest. Every nerve in her body tingled and itched with power. She exhaled and a stream of electricity, blue-white and crackling like a downed powerline, shot forth and landed directly into the snowy side of the Frostbacks. They shuddered and groaned as thunder crashed in the clear night sky. 

The magic holding the lyrium dragon down fizzled into nothing as the Frostbacks began to weep rock and snow and ice once again. 

“ **Go. I don’t want to kill you too** ,” Bridget told her even though the red walls were still up; not that she would understand her in the first place. But the other dragon seemed to get the hint and struggled to her feet, dragging her body away and leaping into the air with her half-broken wings, letting out a ferocious roar.

Bridget curled into a ball of scales and wings, making sure her body covered Vazrah’s completely. The ground trembled as the avalanche tumbled down, quicker than expected.

Vazrah groaned as she came to, hand flashing intermittently like broken Christmas lights. “What...just happened?”

But Bridget didn’t answer, being a dragon, and the avalanche swept across them and Haven before Vazrah could really process anything, blanketing them in layers of snow and ice.


	11. interlude ii: dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another vazrah pov. i love her so much y'all and these chapters are a delight to write. someday i'll commission someone to draw her.

Vazrah’s mind is racing. She’s fairly certain there’s a dragon on top of her, and on top of that is a lot of snow. Her hand is throbbing with pain and the only thing she can see in the darkness is the damned green glow from the fucking thing. The light is stronger than usual, and it’s down to her wrist instead of remaining solely on her palm.

Things are hazy. She remembers the attack on Haven. She remembers the Red Templars. She remembers the strange-looking dragon and she remembers the Elder One revealing his true nature and totally fucking with her hand. But she doesn’t remember how she got away from him, or how she came to be with another dragon curled around her, surrounded by a damn avalanche.

_Is it getting hard to breathe in here, or is it just me?_

As if reading her mind, the dragon suddenly stretches its wings and head and the snow dome around them bursts into like broken glass. Vazrah coughs and gulps in air as she crawls away from the beast as fast as her exhausted body can manage. When she’s collected herself, she glances around and her heart sinks.

She’s not in Haven anymore.

It looks like an old mining tunnel. Probably one of the many secret escape routes that once served whatever cult who called Haven their home. Ice covers the earthen walls in thick reflective sheets. The only light comes from above; a hole in the ceiling the size of a cart, with snow and rocks still tumbling down from it. The light is from the fires that still burn somewhere above and everything is cast in a warm amber glow.

There’s an almost inquisitive grumble from behind her and Vazrah remembers the dragon, though it isn’t something she can really forget.

It’s a little smaller than the one that attacked Haven, which is a good thing otherwise it would probably bring the roof of the tunnel down. Its scales are a beautiful deep indigo that shifts into a shade of purple when the light from the hole catches on the surface. Its smooth, semi transparent wings are tipped with sharp points. Its limbs are muscular and its tail has spikes running along the top. There are two elegant horns on its head that remind her of symmetrical tree branches, colored a jet black. But what strikes Vazrah most is the intelligent way it stares at her with hazel eyes, as if it knows her.

And then it hits Vazrah. She’s seen those eyes before.

“...Bridget? Is that you?” 

The dragon nods in affirmation, and there is almost a smile on her serpentine snout. She opens her jaws, revealing hundreds of perfectly pointed fangs, and something comes out. It’s a language, but yet it’s not. It sounds like all the languages of the world, crammed into one sentence, and spoken backwards. But it’s lyrical and lilting at the same time—like a song Vazrah has heard once in a dream, she has completely forgotten the tune.

When Vazrah just gapes at her, uncomprehending, the dragon that is also Bridget lowers her head and heaves a frustrated sigh. She growls in irritation, a rumbling sound deep in her throat that echoes throughout the empty cavernous tunnel, talons sinking into the snow.

“I assume you did some sort of spell that allowed you to shapeshift into a dragon,” Vazrah says slowly, wincing when her hand goes through a particularly strong wave of pain. Though she can’t imagine how it’s possible—Bridget claimed her magic was new to her, and Vazrah did believe that, so how did she manage to master a shapeshifting spell? There are reasons why the practice is illegal.

But Vazrah can’t focus on that at the moment. There are more important things at hand. She clears her throat, running her untouched hand through her messy braid. “Did you fight that bastard who called himself Corypheus and the other dragon? If so, uh...thank you. For saving my life.”

Bridget perks up a little at that, the end of her tail wagging slightly. Like a dog accepting praise. It’s kind of adorable.

“We need to find a way forward. I don’t think these tunnels connect to the escape route everyone was using to evacuate. I need to…”

Vazrah trails off as a wave of dizziness hits her. She pitches forward and her vision goes black for a moment. When she comes to, she’s being held carefully by Bridget’s two front limbs, and the dragon is making concerned noises and staring at her with fretful eyes. 

“M’fine,” Vazrah mumbles, but she is not fine. The pain in her hand is beginning to die down but her entire body feels heavy and even the thought of moving tires her out. Her eyes flutter shut and she attempts to will the exhaustion away with pure stubbornness. Nothing happens.

She feels herself being lifted and suddenly she’s tucked between a long scaly neck and batlike wings. Bridget speaks in that baffling language again and the only thing she understands is her name. Vazrah feels Bridget moving, muscles rippling beneath her body, and for a few minutes there’s nothing but the sound of water dripping and Bridget’s talons clipping against frozen ground.

Eventually the air grows frigid and she hears the howl of a blizzard from somewhere close. Vazrah opens an eye to see Bridget has come to the end of the tunnel and beyond lay the Frostbacks, gripped in a wicked snowstorm. 

The scenery is just white and wind as far as the eye can see. Vazrah shivers and invokes a simple spell to keep herself warm, but her magic struggles to answer her call. _What did he do to me?_ she thinks in a panic as she clenches her glowing hand as if to punish the offending limb. 

“I don’t suppose you can fly in that,” she calls out as she tries to suppress the thought that her magic is never going to work again, because she knows it isn’t true. Vazrah can still feel the fires in her soul. The Anchor and its slow progression up her arm is most likely just interfering and all will be well with rest. At least that’s what the rational part of her says.

Maker, she just wants to sleep.

Bridget makes a frustrated grumble and shakes her massive head, unfolding her wings and draping them over Vazrah’s curled up form like a dragonskin tent. She starts forward into the crushing combination of icy wind and snow; Vazrah can feel how strong the blizzard is with how Bridget strains against the glacial wind. But her wings protect Vazrah from the cold gusts for the most part, and she finds herself drifting off into a dreamless slumber.

Vazrah snaps awake some time later; she’s not sure how long she’s been out, but the blizzard has died down considerably and she’s not as cold. The impromptu nap seems to have done the trick and she can feel fire at the end of her fingertips, coursing through her veins with a much welcomed heat. She raps a knuckle against Bridget’s scaly neck, rising up into a sitting position. “Crap. Didn’t mean to pass out on you,” she apologizes as Bridget’s wings lower like the sails of a ship and return to her sides and she comes to a halt, glancing over her shoulder with an uneasy expression. It’s strange to see such emotion in a dragon. And slightly wrong.

Vazrah slides down Bridget’s neck with ease and lands on her feet into the snow. It comes up to her knees, which says a lot considering how tall she is. But her hand is no longer burning with pain nor is it no longer glowing, and her body doesn’t feel so numb and heavy anymore. 

It’s no longer a complete whiteout, luckily. The snow is still falling heavily, but the wind is barely a whisper and she can make out the mountains and pine trees clear as day. 

Vazrah summons another burst of the inferno and covers herself with a blanket of heat, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck. Sleeping on the back of a dragon isn’t the greatest for one’s own back. She realizes with a flare of annoyance that her staff is missing—it probably got lost during the avalanche and is most likely buried under heaps of snow back at Haven. She frowns and grumbles to herself, knowing she should be worrying more about finding the rest of the Inquisition. But she had really liked that staff. Josephine once mentioned offhandedly that it brought out the color in her eyes.

_I’ll have to make sure I get Harrit to craft an exact replica._

A pained snarl catches Vazrah’s attention and she spins around to find Bridget’s large body tensed up, talons digging into the snow and eyes squeezed shut. A strange shimmer rolls across her scales, like lightning in a storm cloud, and suddenly the dragon begins to…shrink. There is no other way to describe it. The beautiful scales float off and disappear into the wind and her tail vanishes as the rest of her body gets smaller and smaller until the normal human form of Bridget is on her hands and knees in the snow, panting and shaking. Her braid has come until and her hair cascades wildly into her face, her clothes bloodied and somewhat torn.

“Ah, fuck,” she hisses through gritted teeth before collapsing on her side, sending a poof of snow into the cold air. 

Vazrah rushes over and crouches down, yanking Bridget into a sitting position. Her face is flushed and she’s breathing heavily. Her skin is hot to the touch, almost burns Vazrah’s hand, and yet she’s shivering uncontrollably. Her eyes are hazy and unfocused, but she gives Vazrah a tired and cheeky grin.

“Hah...used to write shitty poetry about being a dragon on the inside...never thought it’d actually happen, though.”

“You’ve spent too much magic keeping that form and maneuvering through a blizzard,” Vazrah chastises her lightly as she hauls the human girl into her arms effortlessly. Bridget yelps weakly in surprise. “You carried me. Seems only fitting I do the same for you, Princess.” Vazrah winks down at her, even though inside she’s wracked with guilt and concern. Magic depletion is no laughing matter.

“Thanks, babe. It’s a dream to be held in your strapping arms.” Bridget’s head practically falls against her chest. Vazrah extends the warming spell to her, even though she’s burning up, because it’s the only thing she can think to do. 

She starts to move forward, pushing through the snow with Bridget in her arms. The two are silent as more and more mountains come into view and the snow slows down to just a gentle flurry. Vazrah doesn’t know if she’s even going the right way. There’s just a voice in her head telling her to keep moving forward, and there’s not much else to do other than listen to it.

“She really cares about you, you know.”

Bridget’s mumble startles Vazrah somewhat, as she quickly grew accustomed to the quiet snow-filled night. “Who?” she asks as she notices with a rising degree of hope that the snow is beginning to get thinner, and it is no longer at her knees but rather just above her ankles.

“Josephine. She looks at you the way I look at lobster mac and cheese.” Bridget smirks ever so slightly, the mirth finding a way to shine through her fatigue. “Like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.”

Out of all the things to have a conversation about after narrowly escaping death and now trekking through the mountains during a snowstorm, her relationship with Josephine is definitely on the bottom of Vazrah’s list. Though she does guilty that she hasn’t had the chance to tell Bridget the juicy details of their flower field date, or the fluttering hand touches when no one is looking, or the warm smiles from across the war room. She feels her face start to warm up, and it’s not from the spell. “Let’s just worry about you right now, okay?”

Bridget doesn’t answer. Her eyes are closed and her breathing has grown a little more ragged. 

Vazrah quickens her pace as best she can.

She loses track of time again, even though she’s awake this time. The sky begins to turn pink and orange with the coming of a sunrise. It’s when the ice clinging to the mountains begin to reflect the sun’s weak rays that finally she comes to a stop. Vazrah stands on a small overlook, and below there is a sprawling camp of tents and people milling about aimlessly in the dawn’s pathetic light.

There’s a banner with the Inquisition’s ostentatious hairy eyeball sigil fluttering proudly in the wind.

Vazrah thinks she’s blacked out again because the next thing she knows, she’s on her knees with Bridget still cradled against her chest, and there’s a group of people swarming her like sharks. 

“Herald! You’re alive!”

“Did you defeat that creature?!”

“Thank the Maker you made it…”

The voices blend together, far too loud, and Vazrah’s voice seems to have stopped working. She just nods along numbly, throat constricting and heart thundering in her chest.

“Everyone, give the Herald some space!” Cassandra is suddenly at her side, wearing her usual stormy expression. But there is a concern behind the thorniness as she hauls Vazrah to her feet, glancing briefly at the unconscious girl in her arms before focusing on Vazrah’s face and getting right down to business. “Cullen. Is he—?”

Vazrah just shakes her head. She doesn’t want to voice out loud that he’s dead, and certainly not the manner in which he died. Not yet. 

But the Seeker is no fool, and she knows immediately. Cassandra’s shoulders drop and she runs a hand through her hair, inhaling sharply. “Andraste preserve him,” she murmurs, giving a moment of silence most likely dedicated to a quoting a Canticle in her mind.

“Mistress Adaar! V...Vazrah!”

Josephine is sprinting up the snowy hill as best she can in that lovely gown of hers, which hasn’t lost any of its splendor even torn and covered in ash. Her face is weary and drawn but her eyes are still bright like stars when she comes to a stop in front of Vazrah, breathless. Blackwall is right behind her, mirroring her spent expression, face still sooty and covered with dried blood. Wordlessly, Vazrah shifts Bridget and drops her gently into his arms. 

He looks at her with such pain and devotion when he takes her, making the barest of sighs as his body shudders. “...thank you,” Blackwall whispers to her, and Vazrah nods at him knowingly, because he’s looking at Bridget the way she claims Josephine looks at Vazrah herself.

And then suddenly the ambassador’s arms are around her waist, damning all protocol and social conduct, but Vazrah does not think that anyone cares about proper etiquette at the moment. “I was so frightened...I thought you would not return,” Josephine admits quietly in a trembling voice, her head resting just below her chest. “Forgive me for not believing in you more. There was so much screaming, so many flames...I feared the worst. But you are here. _Truly_ here.”

As if to accentuate her statement, Josephine’s arms tighten around her. Vazrah brings her closer and holds her, breathing in the fresh scent of the daisy still tightly woven within her braided bun. It would take the Maker himself, if he truly existed, to tear her away from Josephine right now. “Oh, Josephine,” she murmurs soothingly into her plaited hair, relishing in the tenderness of her touch. “I will always come back to you. I swear it.”

It’s not the proclamation of love she imagined, standing in the snow after escaping from certain death and surrounded by Inquisition soldiers.

But it will do for now.


	12. from the ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw when you start getting more hours than usual at work but no one shows up so all you do is write dumb ass self insert and finish a chapter way before you originally planned. oops. (i have no clue when i'll get around to writing the next one even though everything is planned out in my head)
> 
> okay so there's a lot of canon divergent stuff in here that was basically the inspiration to write this fic (namely about dragons). like, a lot. hey if bioware doesn't give me solid answers then i create them myself. i've had a certain portion of this written for at least five months and i've just been building up to it.
> 
> and finally....my hawke at last makes her debut :') i've only played inquisition but i read extensively on both the previous games, and spent many hours brainstorming about my own warden and hawke. vazrah, hawke, and my warden (i imagine you've figured out who that is) are very important comfort characters to me so i'm happy to share them. 
> 
> skyhold is imagined to be much bigger than it is in game, just an fyi!

Bridget was floating.

Everything was black. 

But she wasn’t afraid. It somehow felt nostalgic. She just wanted to close her eyes and drift off into sleep for a thousand years, surrounded by the comforting darkness. Nothing else really mattered. Or did it? She couldn’t remember. There was nothing else but the warmth of the darkness and the peaceful silent as she dozed along, limbs heavy and senses dulled.

And then she did remember, and her eyes snapped open as she flailed about wildly in the strange abyss, panicking.

“Vazrah?! Where are you?!”

Bridget’s voice echoed emptily throughout the void and bounced back into her ears, which theoretically shouldn’t be possible if it truly was a void because of science and physics and other things she wasn’t well-versed in. 

Suddenly she was standing on her feet on solid ground, and the black abyss vanished in the blink of an eye. In its place was a picturesque meadow that reminded her of the random prairies that would pop up in the middle of the woods, with a clear blue sky and a warm sun above her. It smelled like summer and she felt a humid breeze on her cheeks, rustling her hair. There was a small pond just a few feet away, with various flower petals drifting on the crystalline surface. Bridget blinked, confused, and the moment she did so there was a dragon standing in front of her. Not just any dragon—it was Hope, only ten times bigger, towering over her with amethyst eyes gazing at her regretfully.

“If you tell me I’m dead, I’m going to annoy the hell out of you in this weird afterlife until you let me come back to life,” Bridget warned before Hope could say anything. It was strange to see her the size of an actual dragon. She was even more elegant scaled up, silver-white hide glistening in the sunlight, and graceful antlers looking like they could probably skewer someone right through.

“Technically, I already did that once, but you were only half-alive,” the dragon answered, reaching forward with her claws and flicking Bridget lightly on the forehead. “You’re merely unconscious right now. This is the Fade.”

“...huh.” Bridget looked around, expecting to see demons flying out of green portals and the remnants of the Black City floating around. But there was only the meadow, which went on forever, and Hope. Nothing of the usual Fade accessories that were often described in the handfuls of journals Bridget had snitched from various mages when they weren’t looking.

“It’s my corner of the Fade, I suppose you could call it.” Hope leaned down on her four limbs and shifted her feathery wings before settling into a sitting position. It was a cat loaf, only dragon sized. “You will find no demons prowling about, nor any spirits.” 

“So...why am I here? I’ve never entered the Fade before.” Bridget sat down in the grass next to Hope, leaning against her scaly forelimb. She still radiated her gentle calming effect, even when supersized. 

“By allowing you to borrow my form, I’ve inadvertently connected you to Thedas in a way you were not before. But it was dangerous.” Hope sighed deeply, voice dripping with apologetic unease. “Imagine yourself as an empty glass. When I brought you to Thedas, the magic sought you out and poured into you, making you a full glass. And when I gave you my form, the glass overflowed because it could not handle the volume, and now you’ve exhausted your magic. You will be able to enter the Fade in your dreams now, but I’m so sorry for putting you in such a precarious situation.”

“Are you kidding me? It was _amazing_!” Bridget exclaimed, remembering the sheer power and exhilaration of being a dragon. She could almost taste the ozone still, or perhaps it was just the Fade giving that memory a little extra oomph. “So what if my body couldn’t handle it and I passed out? It was the only option at the time. And I protected Vazrah, so…”

Bridget trailed off as a sinking realization smacked into her.

She turned her head so that her eyes met Hope’s, keeping an unwavering and steady gaze with the dragon. “When we talk in my mind,” she said slowly, “you’re speaking the original language of dragons, aren’t you?”

Hope was silent, and Bridget couldn’t sense at all what was going on inside the dragon’s mind. “I was speaking it when I was a dragon, wasn’t I?” she added quietly.

Finally, Hope nodded. “Yet another thing I should apologize for,” she began, voice a curious mixture of relief and guilt. “I didn’t think my connection to you would allow you to understand the old tongue. It’s been a long time since I last bonded with someone this way.”

“Hope,” Bridget placed her hands on Hope’s scaly cheeks so that she could not move her head away and instead would continue to look her in the eyes. “What are you?”

She had never really thought much of it before. Hope was just...Hope. Her emotional support pocket dragon and constant companion since the jump. She wasn’t a spirit; she had said it so many times before, and Bridget had just accepted it because she didn’t really know what the alternatives were, but now standing here in the Fade…

“Ah. I suppose...it’s time you know everything. It wouldn’t be fair to keep it from you, especially now that you’ve experienced the form of a dragon.” Hope gingerly pressed her forehead against Bridget’s. “It’s easier to show you,” she murmured as a sharp pain ran across Bridget’s mind. It only lasted for a moment, however, and then the meadow disappeared and in its place was nothing.

Hope’s voice boomed inside of her and all around her, strong and rhythmic as she spoke in the old tongue of the dragons. 

**“When the world had just been born, there existed nothing but the sky and the earth. The sky was full of glimmering, beautiful things—the sun, the moon, the stars...but the land beneath it was barren and desolate and ugly. Nothing was alive. Nothing could be alive. It was a dead, sad world. The stars would look upon this and mourn every night, letting their tears flow and fall from the sky to the barren wastelands below. The stars wanted so desperately to watch upon something alive; they were so old, so tired, and their pain and sorrow collected within each tear they shed.”**

There were deserts of snow and sand stretching as far as the eye could see. It was hard to breathe. Bridget felt like she was suffocating. But when she looked up, the sky above was unlike anything she’d ever seen before; it was too beautiful for human words, and she nearly choked with an unknown emotion as she felt cool drops of rain splatter down upon her cheeks. 

**“They dreamed and imagined of the children they wished to create—beings who could carry the souls of the stars themselves, who would bridge the gap between the land and the sky. And so from the layers of tears formed a being so great and so beautiful that the stars wept anew, but this time it was with love and graciousness. This was the first dragon. Her scales glittered as bright as the stars. Her wings could bring her as far as the moon and her claws could dig into the barren earth. The stars gave her their magic, which was far more primal and wild than anything else that has ever existed. The first dragon had a breath of fire and ice and storm, the very core of the stars themselves. And so she traveled the world upon the stars’ request, breathing upon every inch of land that she could find.”**

The dragon was bigger than anything that had ever existed—a leviathan that could engulf the entire world. Like the splendor of the primeval stars, there was no way for Bridget to coherently define the first dragon. She shone brighter than the sun and her roars were utterly celestial.

**“The three elements combined gave life to the once dead world—every scorch mark in the ground rose to become a dragon of flame hotter than the sun, every icicle that fell from her fangs formed into the dragons of frigid winter, and the lightning she cast forth danced until there were dragons who could live within the thunder and wind. Satisfied and spent, the first dragon used the last of her strength to fly towards the heavens and return to the ones who had borne her. With her last breath she brought into the world the most important thing, for it was what had caused the stars to have created her in the first place: Hope. And Hope, a small fluttering thing, knew that she would be needed in not just this world but others too.”**

Bridget watched the creation of Thedas the way she would watch a movie whose plot she’d already spoiled for herself. Mountains rose. The seas filled. Forest sprouted. And living among all these new things were dragons, hundreds of them, smaller than the first but still bigger than anything else, claiming their territories. Bridget saw Hope form from the starsong and life-giving breath of the first dragon and she even smaller, but she was still the most elegant and kind of them all.

**“Her mother’s body disintegrated amongst the stars, and while they mourned the passing of their first daughter, they welcomed the birth of their many other hundreds—and most of all, they embraced Hope with more love than is now possible for a single entity to contain. Hope bid farewell to her home in the stars and began her journey through the realms of reality, spreading her tiny wings and touching the hearts of all who called to her.”**

Faces filled her mind. Billions and billions, some human and some not, but all desperate and reaching out with the entire souls, begging for someone—anyone—to listen. And then Bridget saw herself. Saw her hands gripping the bridge rail. Saw her close her eyes. Saw her jump. 

Heard the words she’d repeated like a mantra over and over again, so many nights crying in bed and feeling like she didn’t belong in her own skin.

_I don’t want to die, not really. I just don’t want to live like this anymore._

And then she saw Hope; a single beam of light in the darkness of her despair. She embraced Bridget with feathery wings and whispered promises of something better as she soared through worlds and realms untold, until finally she was once again where it all began: Thedas.

Bridget slammed back into herself with the force of a car crashing into a building. Hope pulled her forehead away and Bridget nearly tumbled forward, head spinning with a millenia’s worth of knowledge and images. Hope caught her with her claws and steadied her.

“Holy _shit_.”

It was all Bridget could say as she stared at the dragon before her in disbelief, mouth hanging wide open.

Her head was starting to hurt. Which shouldn’t be possible since she wasn’t in the Fade physically but all of that information was just a little bit too much for her to handle. She slid down onto the ground, whistling through her teeth as she struggled to categorize it all in a way that would make the most sense. Hope said nothing as Bridget worked it out and simply remained where she sat. After what seemed like an eternity, Bridget rubbed her head and let out a strained groan and flopped fully onto the ground, staring up at the fabricated blue sky.

“So you’re basically a god? I’ve been carrying a god around in my pocket who just confirmed the multiverse theory?” 

“I wouldn’t say god,” Hope retorted with a hint of amusement. “A more fitting term would be ‘guardian.’ The stars created the First. The First created me. If anyone is a god, it would be the sky and everything within it.” She paused, glancing up at the faux and cloudless heavens. “And who’s to say it’s the truth of how Thedas came to be? It’s simply what I have in my memories. Maybe the Maker is the true creator of this world, or perhaps it’s the elven gods, or even the Avvar’s legends.”

“This is worse than any philosophy class I’ve ever taken,” Bridget mumbled. “As much as I enjoy picking apart creation myths, knowing that you’ve been around since the literal dawn of time in this world is, uh. A lot.” She looked back over at Hope, frowning slightly. “So how did you find me?”

“It’s in my name. I briefly mentioned it to you before. I may not be a true spirit, but I still share some aspects of one and can enter the Fade, and I was born with the purpose of bringing hope to the hopeless. I heard your soul crying out from across hundreds of realms, and it was louder than most others. So I followed it, as I always do when someone calls out for me.” Hope smiled, an absurd gesture on a dragon that looked somewhat like a sneer on her serpentine face. “In your case, all you wanted was someplace where you truly belonged and I thought Thedas might work. I just didn’t expect the magic to take to you the way it did.”

“Wait, you didn’t know I was going to be a mage?”

“Not at all. I was quite shocked! I’ve never brought someone across realms. I wasn’t even sure I could do it. But it worked and you gained magic, and though there have been times where things have been difficult, I think you fit in quite well here.”

“I wish you could have found a way to bring McDonald’s along. Then things would have been perfect,” Bridget joked with a cheeky grin, rolling to avoid Hope’s claws when she swiped playfully and somewhat exasperatedly at her. The grin faded when a thought swept across her mind and she cleared her throat. “So why are there almost no dragons left, if those were the first beings in Thedas?”

Hope’s shoulders drooped and Bridget felt waves of sorrow emanating off of her. “I’ve spent most of my existence in other worlds helping those I can, only returning to Thedas occasionally. I wasn’t here when the dragons began to disappear. I’m not sure why why there are none left who were descended directly from the First like myself and the ones that remain don’t understand the old tongue.”

“Maybe it’s like the dinosaurs, minus the whole mass extinction thing?” Bridget suggested, trying to be helpful. “Other species adapted to a changing environment and thrived while dragons struggled and couldn’t compete.”

“I suppose.” Hope lowered her head to the ground and closed her eyes, sighing heavily. “The stars are silent whenever I ask them what happened. Maybe it’s best I don’t know.” She flicked her tail back and forth like a frustrated feline. “Please keep this between us, at least for the time being. I’m not certain how the people of modern Thedas would react if they knew.”

“Yeah, I don’t imagine learning that their world was created by stars and dragons would fly over well with most of them.” Bridget patted her head with what she hoped was a soothing touch. “Thanks for trusting me enough to tell me. And thank you for bringing me to Thedas when I was at my worst.” She slid her arms around the long scaly neck in a loose hug.

“I’m glad I came to you. The time I’ve spent with you has been more rewarding than I could have imagined.” Hope’s words rumbled in her throat and vibrated against Bridget’s arms, tickling her somewhat. “But enough about all of that. I will remain here for a little longer to recover and you should be getting back.”

“Huh? Getting back to where?”

But Hope didn’t answer, because Bridget was suddenly being pulled away from the picturesque meadow by an unseen force. She tried to scream but nothing came out and instead she was dragged into a bright white light that nearly burned her eyes. She brought her hands up to shield her face. Or at least she tried, but her body wasn’t obeying her commands and instead she just struggled uselessly against whatever it was that was yanking on her. The light got bright and brighter and brighter until—

“WAUGH!”

Bridget yelped as her eyes snapped open and she shot up into a sitting position, chest heaving and hands clammy. There was nothing grabbing at her. There was nothing on her, actually, save for a white nightgown-type clothing. She was in a bed, in an unfamiliar room full of other beds with about a dozen people laying in them, most either asleep or unconscious. The air smelled slightly stale and sterile. There was a long table against one of the walls with various herbs, bandages, and other medicinal supplies on the surface.

_Is this a hospital? Where am I?_

She yanked the sheets off and jumped off of the bed, bare feet landing on the wooden floor. Immediately her stomach stabbed at her with hunger pangs and her legs wobbled beneath her. She grabbed the edge of the straw mattress and fell back onto the bed, holding her stomach and wincing. 

_It feels like I haven’t eaten in days! But that can’t be right! I mean, I threw up when I watched Cullen become a dragon buffet...but I was with Hope for only a couple of hours at the most! And when I was carrying Vazrah through the mountains, that was only for a couple of hours too! ...oh, wait, I passed out in Vazrah’s arms, didn’t I? God, her boobs made fantastic pillows. But anyway, yeah, maybe I was unconscious for a long time?_

Bridget’s stomach growled and groaned as she shoved her face into the thin pillow on the bed. “Food…”

There was the sound of a door opening and footsteps approaching. The footsteps halted right at the bed Bridget was sprawled out on, and she lifted her head somewhat—blowing her hair out of her face in order to see, because for some reason it was down and not in its usual braid—and a very attractive woman a little older than her was standing before her.

She had short black hair that ended in curls just past her chin. Her skin was unevenly tanned and her eyes were a piercing blue, almost like ice. They were warm and friendly as she grinned at Bridget with pink lips. There was a jagged scar that cut across her entire face starting at her left eye and running down to the base of her neck. She wore a fairly plain robe and there was a thick tome strapped to one side of her waist; on her back, Bridget could see a staff poking out from behind her head. She wore black leather gloves with the fingertips uncovered, and her nails were cut short.

“Well, look who’s back from the dead!” Her voice was robust, charming, and had a suspiciously Irish lilt to it as she peered closer at Bridget, poking in the forehead. An odd shock rippled through her entire body at the touch, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it was fairly rejuvenating, like she’d just gotten done with a fancy spa treatment.

She was still fucking hungry, though.

“Wait, was I really dead?” Bridget shot up into a sitting position again, ignoring the agony of an empty stomach, scowling. “Hope said I was just unconscious! What the hell?!”

“Nah, I’m just messing with you.” The woman put her palm against Bridget’s forehead and hummed thoughtfully after a few seconds, removing it. “Your fever finally came down. How are you feeling? Any pain, nausea, fatigue?”

Bridget shook her head. “Just really hungry. Other than that, I feel fantastic.”

The woman nodded in satisfaction and went over to a small desk she just noticed was by the bed, scribbling something down on a scrap of parchment. “I’m Hawke, by the way. Aoife Hawke.”

For some reason the name sounded extremely familiar, but Bridget was honestly too hungry to remember why.

“Uh, hi. I’m Bridget. Are you a doctor, or…?”

“Just a wee spirit healer. But I’ve studied medicine, because there are some things magic alone can’t fix.” She pulled out a bundle from beneath her robe and tossed it into Bridget’s lap. “I prescribe you with a good meal as your final treatment. A little magic exhaustion never hurt anyone. ...okay, no, some mages _have_ died, but considering you were in the throes of a fever for over a fortnight and turned out fine, I’d say you’re all well and dandy.”

Bridget had been in the process of unwrapping the bundle, which turned out to contain copious amounts of dried jerky and some kind of bread that smelled like cinnamon. When she heard the phrase “over a fortnight” she froze. “How long did you say I was unconscious?”

“Almost three weeks!” Hawke answered cheerfully as she stepped away and began to check on the other patients in the room, examining bandages and the like. “The Inquisitor was quite concerned when you wouldn’t wake up. As was that burly man with a beard. I had to threaten him with a fireball to the arse before he finally pissed off and stopped hovering around the infirmary like a mother help.”

Even out of the Fade, Bridget was still getting pelted with complicated amounts of information.

She began to shovel food into her mouth instead of voicing her confusion, watching Hawke as she chewed and swallowed. As the healer whistled away with a blithe tune and stirred up some nasty-looking concoction in a glass vial, it hit Bridget why she recognized the name Moira Hawke.

“You’re the Champion of Kirkwall!” she exclaimed through a mouthful of food, bread crumbs flying everywhere. 

Hawke didn’t even pause in her medical ministrations, spreading the gross goo over a multitude of burns on unconscious man’s arm. “Aye, that’s me. Though I don’t go by that title much anymore.” She moved on to a woman who was moaning softly in her sleep, dipping a rag in a basin of water and placing it across her forehead carefully.

“I’ve heard so much about you. You’re a total badass.” Bridget brushed the crumbs off of her nightgown thing and kicked them under the bed. “So, uh...where the hell am I?”

_And why the hell are you here taking care of the sick and wounded?_

As far as she knew, Hawke was supposedly laying low after the chaos she and her companions had caused in Kirkwall. 

“I _am_ rather impressive, aren’t I?” Hawke was now at an older man’s bedside with her hands on his chest, eyes closed. 

A light glowed at her fingertips and soft silver strands of magic began to seep into the man; the contorted grimace he wore slowly untangled into a peaceful expression. Bridget had never really watched healing magic before. It was fascinating and made her feel fuzzy and warm. 

“You’re in the Inquisition’s new base of operations; Skyhold,” Hawke added when she was finished, moving on to yet another patient. “A big old fortress built by ancient elves right in the mountains. Rather drafty, too, since it’s been abandoned for centuries. But the Inquisitor and her people have been working on fixing everything into tip top shape.”

“Skyhold. Okay. So, next question.” Bridget took a long swig of room temperature water sitting in a wooden cup she just realized was next to the bed. “Who the fuck is the Inquisitor?”

“Ach, I forgot, you were conked out for most of the fun stuff.” Hawke glanced over at Bridget from behind her shoulder, grinning a sly grin that was eerily reminiscent of a certain dwarf. “The Herald of Andraste has been officially named Inquisitor. The public doesn’t know but Vazrah Adaar fought like a hellcat against it. Something about not wanting even more holy responsibility dumped on her shoulders.” She whistled appreciatively, nodding almost to herself. “And what fine, muscular shoulders they are.”

“Ugh, I know,” Bridget couldn’t help but agree somewhat dreamily as her mind went back to being cradled in Vazrah’s arms in the mountains. She cleared her throat before she got too caught up in the slightly smutty imaginings. “That burly and bearded man you mentioned before,” she said casually as she slid out of the bed, being able to function properly now that she had some food in her. “Were you talking about Warden Blackwall?” 

“Yes, that’s the one! Maker’s breath, when I saw his griffon, I nearly shat myself. Bloody shock of it, that was.” Hawke gestured to a chest at the foot of Bridget’s bed with a jerk of the head. “Your things have been repaired and are in there. He—and the Inquisitor—asked me to inform him immediately when you awoke, but you aren’t bedridden in the least so I’m sure he would appreciate seeing you with his own eyes. I believe the Warden is staying in the stables.”

With that she turned her attention fully to the other patients of the infirmary and it seemed like Bridget was nothing more than a distant memory for the time being. 

She didn’t blame the Champion—there were a lot of ill and injured, and since she seemed to be fine, why would Hawke waste any more time humoring her questions when so many others needed treatment?

The chest did indeed contain her clothes and beloved Mjölnir, which was in proper shape and appeared as if Cullen had never stomped it in half. Someone had even removed the dragon scale from her person and put it back on the staff. There were no rips or bloodstains on any of the fabric and she changed as quickly as she could, feeling much more settled with the familiar material of the cloak snugly pulled around her. The only thing missing was her signed copy of _Swords and Shields_. She would have to ask Varric if he confiscated it while she was unconscious whenever she saw him next.

There was no hair brush to be found nor anything she could tie her hair back with, so she just combed through the curly mess with her fingers and called it good.

She bid farewell to Hawke, who just gave her a grunt and distracted wave, and opened the infirmary door. When Bridget stepped outside into crisp mountain air, she was utterly blown away.

Skyhold was huge. 

Massive stone towers and ramparts and walls surrounded her. It was a veritable citadel, straight out of Game of Thrones. Along the high stone walls and on the battlements were lookouts milling about, and every ten feet or so was a flag with some kind of different symbol fluttering in the wind—most likely the seal of a noble family who had pledged their support. 

The infirmary appeared to be built into a building attached to one of the walls; there was a group of training dummies to her left as she walked onto the grounds, and on her right a wooden building that looked like it had access to the parapets on the walls via its upper level. As she passed she heard the telltale sounds of a tavern, and smelled the ripe aroma of booze and food wafting out of the cracked windows. 

Tents far larger and in far better shape than the ones at Haven dotted the landscape, all emblazoned with the hairy eyeball of the Inquisition on the canvas sides. In addition were the beginnings of smaller huts in construction, mostly just skeletal wooden frames, but a few had walls and even half a roof built in.

There were two sets of stone stairs carved into a hill. One led down to a wide expanse of what appeared to be training grounds and the other led to a fancy looking castle almost, where the Inquisition banner was hung across the top. A beautiful stained glass window was just above the banner. It did not have any doors and instead opened up to what appeared to be a massive and ostentatiously decorated dining hall. It was all she could see from her vantage just below the steps, but she could hear a great deal of conversation echoing from inside. 

She assumed it was the seat of Skyhold’s power, so to speak, considering it was positioned directly in the middle of the fortress. It seemed to stretch far beyond her sight, disappearing in on itself so that she couldn’t actually fathom how large it truly was.

Bridget walked over to the juncture between the stairs and peered across the way, looking for the stables. Past all the tents and groups of people there was a fairly large wooden building nestled against a wall, and she could see horses milling about in a decently sized corral. Smoke rose from a chimney built into the roof, marring the beautiful blue sky with a smear of ashen smog. Horses usually meant stables, however, so she found her feet moving on their own before she even realized it.

No one paid her any heed as she rushed down the stairs and pushed through throngs of people—there was easily four times as many here than there had been at Haven. Interestingly, Bridget noticed there were no obvious signs of anyone being a Templar, but she could definitely tell who was a mage due to the staffs and fancy robes. 

_I’ll have to find Vazrah and ask her how everyone handled Cullen’s death. ...and if she told them what I was doing. I really hope she was a bro and made up some story, especially knowing that Leliana and Cullen thought I was some Tevinter spy._

That could wait until later. She just really, really wanted to see Blackwall. 

The smell of hay and horses got stronger as she neared the stables. A familiar chunky creature lifted its head from a pile of feed as she approached the corral and Bridget practically threw herself at the fence, arms held out.

“Pookie!” she cried gleefully as the nuggalope gave his odd moo-like sound and lumbered towards her, shoving his massive head at her and catching his horns in her untamed hair. Bridget managed to wrestle away while also scratching behind his ears, face hurting from how wide her grin was.

“I was so worried when I saw that bastard Templar go after you! You’re not hurt, are you?” Pookie just snuffled in answer and pushed against the fence, a clear ploy for more pats. Bridget glanced at his flank and sighed in relief when she saw nothing but a white line in his hide; the injury hadn’t been too deep and it appeared to have already completely healed. 

“I’ll come back later,” she promised as she gave him one last scratch, removing herself from the fence. “But I’m glad you’ve got a nice big yard to run around in now. I hope the horses have been treating you well.”

The horses seemed to not even care about the giant nug with horns in their midst, actually. They just continued grazing as Pookie returned to the herd, head drooping ever so slightly.

Bridget turned from the corral and made her way towards the front end of the stables, which was open to the air. It had two levels: the lower was full of hay and saddles, with a fire going in the a large fire pit and making the inside toasty warm. Tables and chairs were set about haphazardly and on one of them, Bridget noticed what appeared to be a wooden figurine of a griffon. She got closer and inspected it curiously. It was on carved wooden wheels and had a rough piece of rope attached to a hole in the neck. The head was painted in a thin coloring of what Garahel’s appearance was but the rest was plain wood. 

Whoever had carved it had done a remarkable job. Even the wings were cut delicately to show the outlines of feathers.

Blackwall was still nowhere to be found, however.

There were a couple of men just outside the stables, sitting on makeshift benches of wooden boxes and polishing reins. Bridget vaguely recognized them as the horsemaster from Haven and his apprentice and considered asking if they knew where Blackwall was, but thought better of it. They appeared absorbed in their work and she hadn’t yet checked the upper level of the stables.

The stairs creaked precariously under her weight as she ascended them. It was considerably darker in the loft but she could make out piles of hay and feed scattered about. The barn smell was nearly overpowering but not in a bad way. It reminded her of something nostalgic but she couldn’t quite remember why—it was just another specific detail that she had blocked out since coming to Thedas. 

In the shadowy corner of the loft was an area clear of straw and hay and other stable necessities. In its place was a mess of woolen blankets on top of a bedroll of some sort. Next to it was a much larger pile of blankets and pillows, arranged in a nest-like pattern. An oil lamp lay next to the bedroll and beside it was a thick notebook and a quill pen, the Gray Warden symbol etched on the leather front. Bridget shuffled over to it and picked it up, knowing it was bad form to go through someone else’s things but also unable to ignore her interest.

She opened the notebook, wrinkled parchment crinkling as she did so. Blackwall’s familiar handwriting covered the pages in messy scrawl, accompanied by sketches of beaks and feathers in black ink. Phrases such as “ate three times as much as usual today,” “wingspan is beginning to lengthen,” “DO NOT FEED ANY DAIRY PRODUCTS” (which was underlined about six times) and “beak sharp enough to slice through bone now” could be read as Bridget turned the pages. 

_This is a journal of Garahel’s growth and progress_ , she realized when she glanced at the dates written in the corners. Though she still didn’t quite understand the Thedosian calendar system, aside from this age being the Dragon Age. 

A particular phrase on the last page before the rest of the notebook was blank caught her attention. 

“Solas has started the speech lessons. Not terribly keen on exposing G to such magic, but the elf knows what he’s doing and it’s what G wants.” There was a doodle of a griffon head and a little speech bubble coming out of its open beak next to the slightly alarming entry. Bridget just stared at it in shock, trying to comprehend what she had just read. As such she was too lost in her thoughts to hear the the heavy boots on the stairs or the footsteps coming towards her.

It wasn’t until a familiar and gruff voice spoke up in a surprised tone from behind her that her focus came back to the present. 

“Bridget? Is that you?”

Considering the last time someone had come up behind her and startled her it had been a Templar with murderous intent and so Bridget yelped and dropped the journal on the loft floor, simultaneously spinning around with her hand clenched in a fist. She swung as hard as she could, reacting purely on instinct as her fist met with a stubbly cheek. Her attacker stumbled back and cursed loudly, grabbing their face with their hands, and Bridget nearly died in humiliation when her eyes took in Blackwall’s form.

“Maker’s breath!” he exclaimed, more in shock than in pain as he rubbed at his reddening cheek. 

“Oh my god. Oh my fucking god I am so sorry. Oh my GOD.” Bridget covered her face with her hands and spun around in shame, words dripping from her mouth at an impressively horrified speed. “I-I thought...I dunno, I just—I...fuck, I’m sorry, Blackwall!”

She expected him to say something, anything really. What she did not expect was the sensation of being pulled backwards and strong arms wrapping around her. She grunted in surprise as she felt Blackwall’s head lean against her shoulder, his breath fanning hotly against her ear.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured in thick and hoarse tone. “I still remember Haven like it happened last night. I should have been there with you, Andraste preserve me. And then when Lady Adaar stumbled into our camp, half-dead with fatigue, and you feverish in her arms…” Blackwall took a shuddering breath and the anguished sound made Bridget bite her lower lip so hard she nearly drew blood. “I wanted to be by your side every day in the infirmary, but the healers said I would just get in their way.”

Bridget couldn’t help but laugh softly at the childish petulance that colored the last sentence, maneuvering herself so that she was now facing Blackwall’s chest. She hugged him tightly, relishing in the sensation of him being so close once again. “I’m here now,” she assured him. “I don’t plan on doing something as reckless as trying to stop a corrupted dragon anytime soon.”

“I would appreciate it. I think the uncertainty of whether you were alive or not took ten years off of my life,” Blackwall admitted as he slowly let her go.

No longer wrapped in his arms, Bridget was finally able to notice something rather peculiar about Blackwall’s appearance. His beard was still glorious but was trimmed down considerably and had taken on a much more trendy and well-groomed style. His hair had grown to the point where he had it up in a loose bun and some strands roamed free from the confines. The beginnings of silver streaks could be seen hiding amongst the usual black hair, giving him a dignified salt-and-pepper appearance. 

Bridget stared at him.

He noticed her intense eyes and shifted uncomfortably, absentmindedly scratching at the cheek she had punched. There was no signs of potential bruises. Just red. “Is there something on my face?” Blackwall asked hesitantly.

“Bunwall.” She gave him a thumbs up, nodding appreciatively. “You look hot. Spicy. A fine piece of bear. A hot, spicy, bearilicious Bunwall.”

She had simply meant to say “you look good” but evidently she had left her filter in the Fade with Hope.

Blackwall’s other cheek turned red and he choked slightly. “Th-thank...you?” he stammered slowly.

“A-anyway,” Bridget coughed and cleared her throat, gesturing around at the stable loft. “The stables, huh? Out of all the places this giant fortress has to stay in, you neglected beds for horses and hay?”

_Well, I did back at Haven, but it’s because I enjoyed Pookie’s company._

“Garahel insisted. He enjoys jumping off of the rafters,” he explained as he bent down to pick up the journal she had thrown. “He’s reached his adult growth now that he’s over a month old. Solas has been quite helpful, on account that he has some knowledge of griffons. He thinks he can create spell that may allow Garahel to speak.”

Bridget cringed inwardly at the thought of Solas using magic on Garahel but didn’t want to spoil Blackwall’s excitement. “That sounds...interesting.”

“He can understand speech, but him being able to reply will prove useful during battle. I’ve actually begun training with a spear for long range combat but it has been more difficult than expected.” Blackwall sighed. “Iron Bull is the only one with experience with the weapon and he’s been busy with the Chargers scouting Haven’s ruins.”

He paused, not really looking at her and instead focusing on a particularly interesting spot on the floor. 

“Inquisitor Adaar told many of us what happened at Haven with Commander Cullen. How he attacked you and that bastard Corypheus’ dragon killed him. How you rescued her from Corypheus and protected her with your own magic until she regained her strength.”

It wasn’t entirely the truth, but was believable enough that it made sense. Bridget made a mental note to thank Vazrah profusely for not saying anything about her transformation into a dragon. “Did she tell you that Cullen and Leliana thought I was a Tevinter spy?” she asked, voice slightly more acidic than she intended.

“Yes. The spymaster confirmed it after being confronted about it, but after the Inquisitor’s testimony and some of my own intervention, the story is that you are just a new mage who grew up as nobody and wandered into Ferelden to improve your magic.”

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and practically collapsed on a bundle of hay, groaning in relief. “And the whole ‘hey I’m actually from an entirely different world’ fuckery? I plan on finally telling Vazrah because she deserves to know, but...”

“I haven’t told a soul,” Blackwall promised sincerely.

“Oh thank god.” She wiped the sweat off her brow and glanced at him with the best puppy dog eyes she could manage. Which wasn’t the greatest because she just didn’t have the face for it. “Mind taking me to Vazrah, and showing me the rest of Skyhold while you’re at it? Varric’s friend Hawke was there when I woke up and all she told me was that you were staying in the stables, so I haven’t had the chance to explore this place yet.”

“I can do that.” He nodded amiably. “Though I’m afraid you may not get the chance to speak with the Inquisitor. Delegates from all over Thedas clamor for her attention now that she’s been named the official leader.”

“Honestly, I’m shocked the Inquisition wasn’t disbanded when I woke up,” she admitted. “I mean, it’s a nationless, religious, political movement with no real standing. With all the backlash they were getting before Haven was attacked, I expected it to be torn to shreds.”

“The exact opposite happened. With the threat of Corypheus revealed to the world, many prominent figures of nobility and the wealthy have openly pledged their support. The Inquisition is in a much stronger place than it was before.”

“Huh.” 

Bridget supposed the politics of Thedas were simply in such a mess that an organization like the Inquisition was really the only answer to the current state of affairs. 

In a way it made sense considering the Chantry still hadn’t appointed a new Divine. But as the Inquisition grew and increased its influence, so would the chance of corruption. She lamented her love for history—it had given her a glimpse into the Inquisition’s possible future and she did not like it one bit.

_Let’s hope with Vazrah being the Inquisitor that things will go smoothly and this won’t turn into some kind of ancient Roman Senate where everyone takes turns stabbing one another._

“Shall I show you the battlements first?” Blackwall’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts. 

“Oh, yeah! I want to stand on the edge and throw my cape around dramatically, pretending to be a wizened old king of a dying kingdom.” She rubbed her hands together in anticipation.

The next couple of hours were spent touring the entirety of Skyhold, Blackwall acting as a guide. It had heavy Nordic keep vibes, especially considering it was high up in the Frostbacks. Snowcapped mountains surrounded the stronghold on every side and it was chilly up on the battlements, with the wind blustering right through Bridget’s cloak with a bitter bite. A great frozen lake glistened from hundreds of feet below and there was the beginnings of a poorly constructed road of sorts winding alongside the icy water, leading through the mountain pass and right to Skyhold’s main gates. 

The grand courtyard was divided into two sections: the lower consisting of the stables and some training grounds, as well as the main gates, and the upper being home to the infirmary, the tavern, requisitions office, and all the various buildings not yet completed that would act as lodgings for temporary residents and the like. The tents were temporary until they were finished. The wall that surrounded the entirety of the complex had lookout towers in every direction with a couple floors each, and served as the primary housing for many of the mages. 

It was in far greater scale than Haven, and Bridget was a little overwhelmed when they finally entered the main complex.

The grand castle-like structure was warm and toasty and full of people bustling about. The entrance opened up to the dining hall that Bridget had peeked in, and it was thrumming with that same Nordic energy; it was like Hrothgar’s hall from Beowulf with the giant braziers hanging from the vaulted ceiling, Viking-esque decorations plastered along the stone walls, and long tables piled high with foodstuff of everything imaginable. It even had a throne at the very end of the room, settled atop a dais and stuffed between two marble statues of...giant, half-naked qunari women wielding spears and snarling viciously. 

“I’m guessing that’s Vazrah’s chair,” Bridget deadpanned as she stared at it. 

The throne itself was fairly simple, with the Inquisition symbol stitched with gold thread into the fabric of the seat, and was kind of just a large armchair with a little medieval flair. 

“Ah...yes. That’s where she dictates her judgement,” Blackwall explained, voice slightly strained as he avoided looking at the qunari statues at all. “A damned difficult job, if you ask me. But she’s been focusing on bettering the Inquisition and not trying to come across as a brute. Many of the prisoners that she has judged she has recruited for the Inquisition. That Venatori mage who sent us into the future, Alexius? I believe he is researching magic under the ever watchful eyes of Lady Nightingale and Dorian.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t suggest using time magic as a way to solve everything.”

They continued on through the dining hall and to a side door by the throne. It opened up to a set of moldy stairs which in turn led to the undercroft, which overlooked a waterfall that somehow wasn’t frozen. The undercroft served as the new smithy. There were dozens of sets of armor and weapons all about, with a handful of people busily making more.

After the undercroft came the library. 

Bridget had a mini heart attack at the sheer size and volume of the thing.

It comprised of the main tower of the stronghold and was three levels high, though the second level had most of the books and the research areas. Many of the scrolls and tomes had been brought in by multitudes of refugees and people eager to join the Inquisition. The main level was where Solas evidently resided. Eager to see Garahel, Bridget tried the the door to his study but it was locked and no one answered her frantic knocks. 

Blackwall wasn’t sure where else they would be, unfortunately, so they moved on. The top floor was home to the rookery and where Leliana’s agents passed their intelligence to the spymaster. 

It was also where some of the more...controversial and confidential books were kept, away from prying eyes. It was a strange Big Brother type of situation, and made Bridget extremely curious to know just what would classify something to be kept under lock and key like so. But Leliana scared the shit out of her, so there was no way she was going to try breaking and entering just to read something from Thedas’ banned book list.

The two made their back back down the spiral staircase of the library and crossed to the other side of the dining hall, to a large wooden door. Behind it lay a series of confounding hallways that snaked around the depths of the stronghold. One led to the kitchen (which was roughly the size of the dining hall itself); another led to set of storage rooms. And one, Bridget was pleasantly surprised to learn, even gave way to an underground hot spring which had been turned into bath essentially. 

She made a mental note to check it out in the dead of night when hopefully everyone would be asleep and she could chill in peace.

Also because she didn’t want to be naked in front of random strangers, but that was beside the point.

There was another courtyard on a much smaller scale compared to the main one outside, located right in the middle of the stronghold. It was still fairly large, with one half dedicated to cultivating medicinal herbs and plants and the other focusing on being a sort of peaceful prayer spot with an elegant stone gazebo and benches. There was even a small shrine dedicated to Andraste in one of the tiny rooms along the inside of the wall. The zen garden, as it so resembled, was somehow quiet and gentle amidst the hustle and bustle of the rest of Skyhold. 

Bridget had a momentary flash of memory from before the jump, involving an arboretum similar to the courtyard garden, but she pushed it away before it could fully manifest.

There were of course hundreds of other rooms hidden within all of Skyhold, and not just in the main fortress. The Inquisition was still finding these areas even after the endless days of excavation. The inner circle and advisers had taken many of those rooms for their own chambers. Blackwall was the only one who refused, opting for the stable on account that he refused to be parted from Garahel.

“The new war room is right through there,” Blackwall informed her as they returned from the drafty underground and back to the busy dining hall, gesturing to one of those very large and heavy wooden doors. “As is Lady Montilyet’s office.” He nodded towards a door on the other side of the sexy qunari throne, opposite to the undercroft’s entrance. “That leads to the Inquisitor’s private chambers.”

“This place has more rooms and corridors than the Winchester Mystery House.” Bridget’s head was starting to pulsate with dull “I am overwhelmed with too much information” pain. She resisted the urge to wince and forced a chipper tone, even though her feet were dragging. “Thanks for showing me the ropes. I appreciate it. You think Vazrah will be in Josephine’s office, or her actual quarters?”

_I hope she’s in her room. I want to crash on a bed and do nothing for the next three days._

He shrugged. “Hard to say. I haven’t spoken with her much lately. Your guess is as good as mine.” He paused and glanced towards her with concerned eyes, evidently noticing how her posture was sagging. “Are you feeling alright? Have you eaten since you woke up?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, Hawke shoved food at me. My body is just used to being a vegetable,” she joked with as nonchalant of a shrug she could muster. “All this walking is kind of murdering me. But I’ll be fine,” she quickly added when Blackwall got that overly worried look in his eyes and patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. 

“Are you certain?” The sincerity in his voice was killing her more than the sudden exhaustion.

“ _Yes_ ,” Bridget insisted, perhaps a little too forcefully, and brushed his frown off with a smile. “I’m sorry for worrying you. After I talk to Vazrah, how about we go get dinner and maybe then find where Solas is keeping Garahel so I can see how much progress he’s made. But dinner first. Because food.”

_Holy shit, did I just lowkey ask Blackwall on a date?_

The realization smacked her in the face and she blinked rapidly.

Blackwall, however, seemed to think nothing of it and merely nodded. “I’ll be back at the stables. Meet me whenever you’re finished.”

“Cool beans, dude. See you then.” Bridget waved him off as he disappeared through the open door of the dining hall and spun around, marching towards the entrance to Vazrah’s chambers. It was more likely that Vazrah would be with Josephine but honestly, Bridget just really wanted to flop onto a bed. 

When she opened the door, it creaked loudly as it swung wide. A dimly lit spiral staircase met her eyes; an Inquisition banner hung on the wall and the air had a damp, mildewy smell to it. The torches lighting up the stairs sent wisps of smoke into Bridget’s eyes as she passed. Every now and then some of the wall was crumbled to the point where she could see thin pinpricks of light from the outside. Her footsteps echoed forlornly on the stone steps and she caught a glimpse of huge cobwebs drifting from half-rotten rafters nailed into the ceiling.

Bridget had the sense that she was descending into a dungeon, despite going the complete opposite direction. 

“Guess they haven’t gotten around to renovating this section yet,” she mumbled. Which didn’t make sense, because if Vazrah was now the Inquisitor, one would think they would pour all their resources into her own private chambers.

Finally, after climbing for a solid minute, the stairs opened up into a much brighter atmosphere. Fancy railing came into view as Bridget used it to pull herself into the large chamber, panting slightly. The room was easily the size of the war room back at Haven and much cozier. A large fireplace was set in the front, filled with logs and warm flames, and there was a desk in the corner wrought with piles of paperwork on the surface. A small bookshelf was nestled behind it, filled to the brim.

Stained glass windows depicting Thedosian constellations and various landscapes such as forest and mountains let in an abundance of natural light, creating a vibrant and welcoming appearance. Two of the windows opened up to a balcony of sorts and a quick glance showed that it looked out onto all of Skyhold’s main courtyard.

The floor was an odd mixture of yellowed mosaic tiling and plush green carpet that had clearly seen better days, but it wasn’t totally falling apart. There was a small chaise in front of the fireplace in a pale cream color. The walls were decorated with somewhat tattered paintings of scowling and disinterested old women wearing the giant hats that were standard Andrastian pope fashion.

But what Bridget really took in was the bed.

It was enormous. She didn’t know if they went by mattress sizes in Thedas, but it easily surpassed even a cal king. It could have fit five, maybe size people. There was a silken canopy-like apparatus overhead of a deep purple color and the head frame was dark wood carved with intricate patterns. Fur blankets and fat pillows lay in disheveled heaps on the bed and in their midst, Vazrah Adaar, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, sprawled out on her stomach and limbs out like a dying starfish with her head buried in a pile of pillows. 

“Vazrah?”

The only answer she got was silent even breaths and a slight shift in movement.

Bridget shrugged and jumped onto the bed without another word, resulting in Vazrah screeching as she jerked into a sitting position, hands clenched into fists as her eyes darted around wildly. Flames sprung from her clenched fists, coming to life with a hiss. Bridget rolled across the mattress to face her and tucked her hand under her chin, giving Vazrah an attempt of a suave wink and finger gun combination.

“Hey. How you doin’, hot stuff?”

“Fuck you.”

Vazrah glowered at her as the fire sizzled out from her skin, visibly sagging in relief before immediately collapsing back into a blob on the bed. She groaned and slapped a hand to her face as she muttered something in Qunlat. “I thought you were Cassandra coming to harass me about troop movements,” she added as she gave her another glare, “so I pretended that I was taking a nap.”

“Nope. Just me. Back from the dead after three goddamn weeks.” Bridget punctuated the end of the sentence holding up one finger for each of the final three words. “Three!”

“Oh, I’m well aware. Meanwhile, I was getting declared the leader of the Inquisition and having even more political bullshit thrown at me than before, which I honestly did not think was possible.” Vazrah shook her head and sighed, glancing at Bridget and reaching a hand out. She patted her on top of the head, almost like she would a child, and a relieved expression melted away the previous irritation. “I’m glad you’re safe. Haven was…”

“A shit show?” Bridget offered, unconsciously leaning into the touch before she could stop herself.

“That’s one way to put it.” Vazrah blew a frustrated sigh between her teeth. 

“So, uh...how has everything been? How’s...how is your hand?” Bridget avoided looking at the qunari and instead focused on one of the portraits of the old women. This one had a particularly soulless pair of eyes that seemed to judge her from beyond the layer of paint.

Vazrah raised her left hand, which was covered in a thick leather glove, and made a fist. “Greener than before. But it doesn’t hurt, and my magic still works. As for everything else…”

A bitter scoff, frustrated and snarling.

“Everyone keeps calling me Inquisitor—which is better than Herald, at least—even though I tried my damnedest to turn down the job. They all sang hymns at me when I ‘returned from certain death.’ Solas was being his usual cryptic self and led us to this giant stronghold. Varric’s friend Hawke showed up out of the blue and offered to take over the infirmary, so that was one less thing on my mind despite all the chaos her arrival brought. And Cassandra has taken over as commander of the troops with Cullen gone. Don’t worry,” her voice got a panicked hint to it and her words came out faster than before. “You’re not suspected of murder or anything. I told everyone that he attacked you and the dragon attacked him before anyone could do anything. I’ve not said a word regarding...your shifting into a dragon.”

She cleared her throat awkwardly and Bridget finally managed to look back at her. Her face was a little red and she wore an almost bashful expression. “I don’t remember if I ever said thank you for saving my life that day. It was such a hectic mess. So...thank you.” She reached out and as if to pat Bridget on the head again, but this time drew her into a one-armed hug that was a little clumsy considering they were both lying on a bed.

“I would do it again in a heartbeat,” Bridget murmured quietly, inwardly doing a victory dance as she let herself lay her head across Vazrah’s chest and used her boobs as pillows.

Her throat closed as she remembered the rush of panic and power both as she had lunged for Vazrah with scaly claws, snatching her from that Corypheus bastard. 

Causing an avalanche with a burst of storm magic deep from inside her. 

The trek through the blizzard with her on her winged back. 

And the way her hand had glowed so viciously green that she halfway feared it was going to disintegrate into a magical powder or something. 

Neither of them said anything for awhile. It was /simply one of those moments where they basked in the presence of each other, thinking and pondering.

Bridget let herself sink into the plush comfort of the mattress—it must have been meant for someone really rich. It was certainly better than the ones in the infirmary (but not as soft as Vazrah’s boobs). Kind of like floating in a pile of fluffy clouds. Or a pile of Garahel’s feathers.

_I really hope he hasn’t lost all his fluff because I’ll actually cry if he’s not soft when I cuddle him._

Finally, after what seemed like forever, she spoke.

“There are some things that I want to talk to you about.”

Vazrah must have sensed the urgency in her clipped tone, because she pushed herself into a sitting position. 

Bridget did so as well, and she didn’t realize she was shaking until Vazrah placed her steady and warm hand on top of her own. She took a deep breath, bit the inside of her cheek to prevent the premature sob that wanted to tear itself free from her mouth, and stared at the Inquisitor directly in her forest green eyes.

Bridget told her everything. 

About the magicless world in which she was born in. About going through life numbly and without a purpose. About wanting to be somewhere else where she could finally be of worth to someone or something. About deciding it was time for things to end because nothing was ever going to go right. About the jump into the river, and how Hope had brought her over at the last second, and how she had crawled out of the lake in the Hinterlands right into Blackwall’s arms. 

(But none of the exact specifics of her life from before, because she had forgotten so much.)

She even explained Hope’s true nature as best she could, sending a silent apology to said dragon. But Vazrah needed to know. And Bridget needed to tell someone, because she was just so tired of keeping secrets.

Vazrah listened without interruption, face stoic and eyes unreadable for the entire hour that Bridget spoke. By the time she was finished her voice was hoarse and her eyes were hot and itchy with the threat of unspilled tears. She inhaled sharply, once, when her chest throbbed painfully and she was certain she was about to start crying uncontrollably. 

Nothing happened. The tears seemed stuck in her eyes and sobs stuck in her throat. She just continued to shake, bones hollow with the weight of the full truth finally out in the open to someone. 

Vazrah wasn’t saying anything and Bridget was terrified she didn’t believe a word of it. She wouldn’t blame her if that was the case, considering how batshit insane it all sounded.

And then suddenly the qunari had her wrapped up in a tight embrace, and Bridget knew she believed her. “Oh, sweetheart. I knew there was something more to you, but I...” She trailed off tentatively and just hugged her harder. “Who else knows?”

“Blackwall. But not...not about...the jump.” It was difficult to get the words out. “Solas is too smart for his own good and figured out I wasn’t from this world, though I don’t know how.” She swallowed thickly and realized her face was wet and that she was crying at last as silent shudders wracked her frame. “You really believe me?”

Bridget hated how small and pathetic her voice sounded.

“I do.” 

Vazrah nodded with such a sincerity to her words that her heart clenched painfully. 

“Magic is inherently strange and there are always going to be things we don’t fully understand. Just look at the Fade and how little we truly know about it. And you don’t have a reason to lie or make this up. Someone from another world doesn’t seem terribly far-fetched when compared to everything else. For someone who lived in a world without magic, however, you wield it well.”

“Yeah, well…” Bridget shrugged and managed a shaky laugh through her frenzied breathing. “That’s what happened when you’ve got a pocket god helping you with the basics. Honestly, I’m still reeling over the whole ‘dragons created Thedas’ thing. And how Hope seems to be the only original one left.”

Vazrah let go of her for a moment and looked at her with a ferocity in her eyes that burned like the fires she could create on a whim. “Some say that the qunari were created with dragon’s blood. The language you spoke when you were transformed? I couldn’t understand it, but it felt familiar somehow.”

“...uh...okay…?” Bridget didn’t really know where she was getting at. She felt that she should have, but she was weary both emotionally and mentally and it was a struggle to even function.

“Maybe the dragons never left. Maybe they just became something—someone—else.”

“...oh. My. _God_.” Bridget’s tears dried up almost immediately as Vazrah’s words registered in her brain. 

The two stared at one another with the dawning realization and the heavy atmosphere of the Inquisitor’s bedroom shifted into one of electrifying excitement. “And the Archdemons!” Vazrah exclaimed breathlessly, her mouth in an open ‘o’ of awe. “Dragons that were the old gods of Tevinter before they became corrupted with the Blight. What if they were also ‘original’ dragons?”

“I’ll ask Hope when she’s done resting in the Fade,” Bridget answered eagerly. “She might not know, because she hasn’t always been in Thedas, but it’s possible she can figure it out.”

“Funny that you should show up during the _Dragon_ Age,” Vazrah mused, “with information that would send the Chantry into a hysterical mess.”

“The irony is not lost on me.”

Without warning she pulled Bridget into yet another hug and the sheer comfort of being wrapped in her arms was almost sinful. It was on another level than Blackwall’s and not necessarily better or worse; just different, but incredibly warm and soothing. Like Hope, in a way.

“You are not alone, Bridget,” she murmured in her ear and the tears began to flow anew once again from that simple phrase. “I won’t say I understand how you felt when you made the decision to jump, because I don’t—not fully. But I’m here for you, so you’re not alone anymore.”

How long had it been since someone had been a true enough friend to her? 

Flashes of before the jump, with the people whom she thought were her friends, filled her mind. The memories she was constantly keeping at bay threatened to overcome everything. The promises of always being there for her despite her multitude of problems, the assurance that moving into an apartment together would fix everything, and the declaration that they would help her fix the things that made everything so fucking difficult.

And then the blatant backstabbing and two-faced lies as they shoved her to the side in favor of easier things.

But Vazrah’s voice cut through the bitterness and heartbroken hatred, echoing among the ghostly faces of Bridget’s past: “You’re not alone anymore.”

She didn’t know how much she’d wanted to hear those words. 

She practically clung to Vazrah, sobbing into her shoulder silently. “I’m sorry,” she gasped out, though she wasn’t quite sure what she was apologizing for. “I-I’m sorry, Vazrah. You’ve got enough on your plate with this Inquisition thing, you don’t need to—I shouldn’t have—ugh, I don’t know!”

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.” Bridget unburied her face from its safe haven and forced herself to do as Vazrah asked. Vazrah was a bit blurry but her voice came out strong and steady. “There is nothing you have to be sorry about.”

“But Cullen,” Bridget choked out, wincing as she remembered the way his bones crunched and the sight of the dragon’s jaws snapping shut. 

She hadn’t realized she’d actually felt that guilty about him. But then again, she hadn’t thought about it too much.

“He made his choice and in doing so, let hatred cloud his judgement. His death is in no way your fault. If anything, it’s mine, because I didn’t stop him and Leliana when their suspicions about you were brought to my attention.” Vazrah brushed some messy strands of hair away from Bridget’s face. “What’s done is done. Nothing good comes from dwelling on it.”

“I hate it when people make sense,” Bridget muttered, wiping her face and sniffling miserably. Because deep down she knew Vazrah was right, and there was no use in wallowing in self pity. 

Her stomach chose that moment to growl in order to remind her that she still needed to eat dinner with Blackwall. She pulled herself away from Vazrah and slid off the bed, rubbing at her (most likely swollen) eyes. “Ah, shit, this took longer than I expected.”

“Got some kind of hot date you’re late for?” One corner of Vazrah’s mouth curled upwards knowingly.

“...maybe.” Bridget avoided her eyes as she smoothed down her shirt and adjusted her cloak. “Is it obvious I’ve been crying?”

“Painfully.” 

“Fantastic.” She blew a frustrated sigh through her teeth and shook her head. “Well, uh. Thanks. For listening to me, letting me bawl like a baby, and for being my...my friend.” 

“Anytime, Princess.” Vazrah smiled fondly and right as Bridget was about to head down the stairs, she called out, “Oh, yeah, there’s a room that has been set aside for you. Just ask Josie about it if you’re interested.”

“Josie?” Bridget raised an interested eyebrow. “You and the Ambassador use nicknames now? Isn’t that, like, second base for you?”

“Silence! Be gone, before I bring the wrath of Andraste down upon you,” she grunted in mock rage, throwing a floppy pillow at her with startling accuracy.

It smacked Bridget in the chest fell and she feigned injury with a theatrical gasp of horror, throwing the pillow back at Vazrah. She hopped down the stairwell before another pillow could be thrown.

She took her time in getting back to the stables, hoping the cool mountain air would clear the evidence of her breakdown from her face. When she returned, Blackwall had his back turned and was standing over the table she had found the wooden griffon on. He was holding a curved piece of wood in one hand and whittling into the surface with a chisel of some sorts. 

_He does woodworking on top of being able to fish with his bare hands?! It’s really like he stepped out from the pages of a Field and Stream magazine!_

Before Bridget could announce her return, a loud squawk that was bordering a screech came from above.

She barely had time to react save for a bewildered shriek as a cream-colored furry mass descended from the rafters a couple feet away and barreled towards her. It knocked into her with the force of a hundred storms and she was hurled onto the floor before she knew what was happening. Huge and heavy paws pressed down on her stomach as a rough, sloppy tongue raked across her face, leaving a trail of slobber in its wake. A hard and pointy beak nuzzled into her hair; happy chirps and purrs came from above as golden eyes shone ecstatically. 

“It’s good to see you too, Garahel,” Bridget grunted out, pushing her hands into his mane of fluff and feathers in an attempt to lessen his weight on her. “But you’re kind of suffocating me with your affection.”

Said griffon rubbed his face against hers even more, cooing. He was as big as a horse now, and his head twice the size of her own. But lo and behold, he was still as soft as ever, though it was in a much more sleek and noble manner than the baby fluff he’d had as a new hatchling.

“Maker’s breath—Garahel! Get off of her!” Blackwall had spun around from his woodworking and grabbed Garahel by the scruff of the neck with the hand not holding the chisel. He yanked hard, straining under his weight. “You know better than that!”

Garahel hopped away with his ears flattened and aquiline face chagrined, rumbling apologetically. 

Bridget sat up with a groan, rubbing her now sore back and wincing. “Oof. Warn me next time before you break my spine, yeah?”

He sat back on his haunches with as abashed of an expression a griffon could wear, ruffling his wings as he whined again. His glittering eyes were downcast and he lowered his head in shame, hiding behind his paws. He slowly shuffled forward and bumped his head into her shoulder, peeking out from one paw and cocking his head inquisitively with a soft chirp. Blackwall scoffed at the overly contrite display as if he had seen it a hundred times, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. 

“Awww, I can’t stay mad at that face.” Bridget sighed and wiped her face free of slobber before wrapping her arms around the griffon’s neck and sinking into his wonderfully fluffy fur. “Missed you too, bud.” 

He nipped at her hair affectionately and a triumphant rumble echoed from his chest. She used him to pull herself up, still hugging into his neck. Garahel let her lean into him and sat up in a flawless execution of the position that was often a symbol of the Wardens, preening the feathers of his wings.

“Did you find Vazrah?” Blackwall asked, setting the chisel down onto the table amongst wood shavings. “I assumed, when you were gone for so long.”

“Yeah, yeah, she was hiding from Cassandra and multiple other responsibilities by pretending to take a nap.” Bridget began to absentmindedly scratch Garahel behind one tufted ear, resulting in one of his back legs thumping slowly against the ground with each scritch. “And I see you found Garahel. Where did Solas hide him?”

“Solas evidently took him to the third floor of the library in an attempt to persuade Leliana into letting him borrow a certain book of spells. It did not go well, because Garahel promptly attempted to eat one of the messenger ravens.”

Blackwall glowered at Garahel, who pretended not to notice and continued to preen his wing indifferently. 

She hid a snort of laughter by biting her tongue and instead coughed awkwardly, trying her best to look innocent when Blackwall’s rankled stare turned to her. “He’s a growing boy, Blackwall. He needs his protein!”

“He’s a misbehaving miscreant who defames me at every chance he gets.”

“He does it out of love.” Garahel took momentary notice of the conversation long enough to nod enthusiastically before returning back to the matter of making his wing feathers pristine. “See? Your son loves you! Tell him you love him back.” Bridget smiled guiltlessly as she waited for his response.

“Can we please just go to the tavern and get something to eat?” Blackwalled sighed a resigned sigh and shook his head. 

Her stomach chose that moment to growl even louder than it had in Vazrah’s room.

“...yes.”

She flushed slightly and stepped away from Garahel, giving him one last farewell scratch. He whined sadly at the lack of touch and slumped his shoulders. When she shrugged apologetically, Garahel harrumphed and leapt into the air on his powerful hind legs, flapping his wings once for momentum and disappearing into the shadows of the rafters. 

A single feather drifted down and landed in her open hand, silvery black and glinting in the light of the setting sun. As she stared at it, an idea slowly formed in her head, and she shoved it into her pocket for safekeeping.

Blackwall had already begun to walk out of the stables and she jogged to catch up, coming to a steady pace at his side. 

“Don’t be so grumpy,” she teased when he grumbled something about corrupting his griffon, clapping her hand onto his shoulder. “You know you missed me and my antics these last few weeks!”

For a second, she wanted to berate herself for making such an assumption and even voicing it out loud. But one of his hands slid up and covered the one that she had on his shoulder, engulfing it in calloused warmth. He squeezed, ever so slightly, and Bridget’s breath caught in her throat. “You’re right,” Blackwall murmured so softly that she could barely hear him over the din of Skyhold. “I truly did.”


	13. suspended belief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you relapse so bad that not even writing your silly self insert fic helps with the sads and as a result you can only come up with this awful filler :'(
> 
> oh also i got a shit ton of commissions for this stupid thing and im gonna insert them in the actual fic text because i figured out that rich text is so much fuckin easier than html and it only took me four months 
> 
> yeehaw pardners

 

Dissociating with Hope by Mogria on Flight Rising

    

Magic is totally not difficult at all nope by VinnyCoco on Flight Rising

 

thinkin about chicken nuggets by Mikixen on Flight Rising

this amazing work of art my best friend online commissioned from their friend Myetier88 on twitter and it actually made me bawl because it's so fucking beautiful and I don't deserve it

 

and finally

my beloved bunwall scene by Chrysannarose on Flight Rising

 

 

The room she was given wasn’t nearly as big and impressive as Vazrah’s, but it was cozy and had a bed so Bridget considered it good enough. It was probably smaller than her college dorm room and had a tiny square window overlooking the cliff Skyhold was built into, so she got a lovely if not precarious view. The wooden floor was constantly warm and toasty as opposed to the chill she had expected on account of her chambers being built directly above the hot spring bathing area.

Truthfully, she had really wanted to find a spot in the stables, but doing so would have most certainly made her spontaneously combust. Josephine had been kind enough to keep the room open for her for three weeks, anyway, and Bridget didn’t want to snub her generosity. Plus it was nice to have a secluded area where she could just take off her pants and lay in bed without worrying about anyone seeing her.

Bridget practically did nothing for the next two days, on account that Hope was still recovering in the Fade and there wasn’t much she really could do.

Garahel (and by some extension, Solas) had been banned from all three levels of the library to prevent further chaos due to his total disregard for authority. Bridget took it upon herself to borrow books herself and read them to the griffon while he was under house arrest so neither of them would fade away from sheer boredom.

None of them were intended to teach him how to speak, of course. Solas begrudgingly gave up on the idea for the time being and she could tell it frustrated him to no end. It gave her an odd sense of accomplishment.

He said no word of their last conversation in Haven, nor did he act as if it had even happened. Which was fine by her.

She didn’t see much of Blackwall on account that he had been asked to assist Cassandra with various issues that mostly involved troop movements and supply lines. Being the new commander of the Inquisition’s army was proving to test Cassandra’s already paper-thin patience. It wasn’t that she was bad at it—quite the opposite, considering her background as the Right Hand of the Divine and an accomplished Seeker. But with a larger influx of people eager to serve the Inquisition meant more people who liked to cause problems...and Cassandra evidently just wasn’t the greatest people person.

On the morning of her third day being awake from her magically induced coma, Bridget was curled up next to Garahel in the stable loft reading Dalish oral histories and legends collected from various clans. He didn’t show much interest, preferring instead to gnaw indifferently on a bone from the previous night’s dinner.

“How can you seriously be so bored about this?” Bridget demanded, elbowing the griffon in his fluffy mane. She shoved the book in his face, which was opened to a rendition of a creation story involving the god Elgar’nan and goddess Mythal. “It’s fascinating! Each clan has their own spin on the same myth!”

Garahel huffed indignantly and pushed the book out of his face with one feathered wing.

Bridget glowered and snapped the book shut, smacking him lightly on the head with it. “Appreciate other cultures and their stories, dammit. Blackwall would listen with rapt attention if he were here.”

A pang of loneliness bloomed in her chest. She was glad he was doing something beneficial to the Inquisition and it was something he had experience with, but it didn’t change the fact that she felt like a puppy desperate for attention. He was only a few hundred feet away and yet she missed him terribly.

“Strong arms and the scent of fresh pine. Never have felt so safe, so wanted. Need to be beside him, always.”

“ _What the fuck?!_ ” 

Bridget’s screech rang through the air as she brandished her staff on instinct, the ore at the top coming alight with sparks of lightning. A thin wisp of a young man stood before her, blinking at her with pale eyes. His odd hat was the most striking thing about him.

It was the boy who had warned of the Red Templars and Corypheus. Bridget had completely forgotten about him.

“You have cracks in your soul,” the boy stated, cocking his head as he stared at her. His eyes seemed to cut right through her. “But he’s helping to mend them. You feel less broken when he holds you.”

“E-excuse me?” Bridget stammered, the magic fizzling out from Mjölnir out of sheer bewilderment. Garahel still gnawed on the bone as if nothing was happening.

“C’mon, kid,” an exasperated voice came from the stairs and with it, the panting form of Varric. “What did I tell you about reading memories _before_ introducing yourself?”

“I’m sorry, Varric. She is very loud.” The boy frowned and squinted his eyes, as if something pained him. “You are very loud,” he repeated, addressing her this time.

“Hey, Princess. Sorry to startle you.” Varric waved an apologetic hand as he strode up to Bridget with a sharp grin. “The kid’s name is Cole. He means well enough. He’s kinda like your little dragon friend.”

“Um. Hi, Cole. I’m Bridget.” Bridget peered at the young man suspiciously, eyebrow raised. “How are you like Hope?”

_Is he actually a dragon in human form or something? Have I met a long-lost brother of Hope’s?!_

“I hear the hurting. I try to help. Sometimes it doesn’t work. There are a lot of hurting here, so I will stay.” Cole glanced back at Varric tentatively, and the dwarf gave him a supportive nod.

“He’s a spirit who’s managed to become a physical manifestation. He can see and feel what’s in your head,” Varric added for clarification. She tried not to visibly deflate in disappointment. “I’m trying to teach him how to be more like a person. Hope it’s alright with you that I brought him to meet you. I know you’ve been keeping to yourself since you woke up so we can leave if you’re not feeling decent.”

“O-oh, no, it’s fine,” Bridget quickly assured him, shaking her head. “I’ve just felt, uh, weird here in Skyhold with so many people around. So I’ve been borrowing books from the library and keeping Garahel company while Blackwall does Inquisition things. I’m sorry,” she added with a quiet clearing of her throat, “that I haven’t really been by to ask how things are going.”

“Don’t sweat it! After being asleep for three weeks, I can imagine how overwhelming this all must be. I heard from Hawke that you were all healed up so I was concerned when I didn’t see you around.”

“She’s hot,” Bridget blurted out without thinking, and then promptly slapped her hand over her mouth as her cheeks warmed up.

Varric got a strange glint in his eyes and his crooked grin seemed to deepen. “You really think so?”

“I-I mean...her voice is very pleasing to listen to, and she’s got a nice face, and her butt is sculpted to perfection. ...I may have stared at it when I was in the infirmary,” she admitted, briefly cursing her inability to _not_ find almost every single woman she stumbled upon attractive.

“Yeah, Hawke is pretty great. But I wouldn’t flirt with her too much,” he cleared his throat and straightened his posture, appearing slightly taller, “she’s got someone from Kirkwall, and I hear he’s the jealous type.”

“Oh?” Bridget blinked at the revelation. “I don’t remember that detail in your book about her. Is it that boring prince dude, uh, what’s his name...Sebastian?”

“Andraste, no!” Varric’s face was an odd combination of horror and amusement, as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or both.

“Soft lips and sweet voice. She sings lullabies when things become too much,” Cole interjected, his tone dreamy as he gazed at Varric with those soul-rending eyes. “Her fingers cool and gentle, they trace scars and tries to heal them inside and out—”

“Kid, I need you to stop talking,” Varric hurriedly stammered out as he elbowed Cole in the stomach, face bright red.

Cole hung his head slightly, his eyes obscured by the floppy rim of his hat. “I’m sorry. Your thoughts were loud. I’m trying to do better. It’s hard.”

Bridget looked from Cole to Varric multiple times as the realization slowly dawned on her. She gaped at Varric, mouth a round ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh my god. You and Hawke are—”

“Stop!” He waved his hands frantically. “Don’t say it out loud!”

“Afraid someone might hear?” she snorted. “There’s just us and a griffon who can only communicate by slapping your face with his wings when he wants food.”

Garahel let out a pleased rumble at that, golden eyes glittering cheerfully.

“It’s just…” Varric sighed and rubbed his forehead, unusually flustered and unhinged. Bridget was used to him doing the flustering with how much of a smart-ass he could be, not the other way around. “We don’t really flaunt it. She’s been through a lot, and there’s always a chance someone will use anything they can find against her. I’ve been sending her letters about this whole Inquisition business but she was supposed to remain in hiding until it blew over. Not show up at Haven the night Corypheus does and sets everything on fire.”

He looked suddenly tired and defeated for a moment, face almost grey as his shoulders slumped. “Cassandra and Leliana wanted her to be the Inquisitor so they interrogated me after Kirkwall went to shit. But I couldn’t let her get caught up in another mess, especially one like this, so I told them I didn’t know where she was.” A smile, bitter and bleak, made its way across his mouth. “Guess fate had other ideas.”

Bridget didn’t really know how to respond. His grim manner was so different compared to his normal swagger and confidence. She’d read his _Tales of the Champion_ and knew that there was more to what had happened in Kirkwall that he’d let on, and she knew that Hawke was one of his dearest friends. Her being involved in the Inquisition was dangerous beyond imagine after her actions paved a way for the mage rebellion. But really, what was there that she could say that he probably hadn’t already thought or heard?

So Bridget silently got up from where she sat against Garahel’s flank and made her way over to Varric, sweeping him into a hug.

He weakly returned it, barely coming up to her chest and avoiding looking her in the eyes. Cole went to his backside and patted his back awkwardly, with a kind of mechanical cadence like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing.

“Thanks,” Varric croaked out hoarsely after a few moments, pulling away and scratching at his nose. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to, uh…”  
  
“Show emotions other than lighthearted mockery and sarcastic humor?” Bridget supplied helpfully, and he nodded.

“We actually fought him once. Corypheus, I mean.” The dark and troubled look in his eyes now turned pensive, albeit frustrated. “He was locked up in a secret Warden prison. Needed Hawke’s blood for some shit. We killed him. At least, we thought we did.”

“Warden prison?” She frowned, curious.

“Yeah. Thinks he’s one of those ancient magisters who broke into the Fade but now he’s just some kind of darkspawn that won’t die. I asked Hero if he knew anything about it, but he had no idea.” He brightened somewhat, and the usual Varric slowly began to come back into existence. “Hawke says she’s met another Warden who might know something about all of this. She’s told Bonfire and the two are plotting a little jaunt to go find him. He’s hiding out somewhere in Crestwood.”

“Do you think Blackwall and I can come?” Bridget asked quickly. “Blackwall hasn’t seen other Wardens in awhile, and I have a personal vendetta against Corypheus for hurting Vazrah.”

Truthfully, she also wanted to feel useful, and sitting around Skyhold reading books and twiddling her thumbs had the opposite effect.

“I don’t see why not. You’d have to ask Bonfire, but I’m sure she’d say yes. You two _did_ find a griffon, after all.” He smirked over at Garahel who regarded him with a cool indifference as he snapped the bone in half with his powerful beak.

Bridget wriggled in excitement and the storm twitched impatiently in her fingertips. She wanted to be crawling through puddles and hiking cliffs again; anything to help Vazrah, and anything to stave off the ever-encroaching threat of dissociating for days on end.

 _Plus,_ she thought as she absentmindedly fiddled with the dragon scale on Mjölnir’s handle, _Blackwall won’t have to help Cassandra with boring military things, so I can have him all to myself!_

It was terribly selfish of her, but it still filled her with a warm giddiness. She refused to feel guilty about it.

“You think of him and everything inside you gets brighter.” Cole was suddenly at her side. He reached out a hand and grasped one of hers, and she felt a similar sort of peace that Hope would always give her. “It’s the same for him. He doesn’t have to wear so much armor when you smile at him. You’re like the sun.”

“O-Oh.” She felt her face get hot and she suddenly became very interested in counting how many grooves there were in the floorboards.

“I think our next ‘how to be a person’ lessons are going to involve keeping comments on romance to yourself,” Varric stated in a deadpan voice, grabbing Cole’s sleeve and tugging him away from her.

Her skin felt like it was on fire as she continued to count the grooves (she was up to the forties already), her voice coming out in a panicked squeak. “I-is it that obvious?”

“I think the only person who knows you and hasn’t completely figured it out is Hero himself,” he replied as nonchalantly as he could, and she groaned with humiliation and buried her head in her hands.

“Please don’t tell him,” she muttered through her fingers. Garahel, too smart for his own damn good, got to his paws and chirped brightly as he gestured down to the lower floor of the stables with his head. Bridget lifted her head and followed his gaze to see Blackwall shuffle in from outside, wearing his armor and his sword strapped to his waist. She made an involuntary noise in her throat and because Thedas hated her, he somehow heard it and glanced up at the loft. Blackwall waved when his eyes met hers and even though she had just seen him only hours ago, the lonely ache within her completely vanished at the sight of his face and she couldn’t resist smiling stupidly and waving back.

But then she remembered her face was all red, and that Cole might say something she really didn’t want him to say.

“If he asks, we’re talking about your porn books,” she hissed to Varric as the telltale sounds of Blackwall’s boots on the stairs reached her ears. She shoved her hand in her cloak pocket to pull out her copy, but when her fingers were met with emptiness, she remembered it was missing and had been since she woke up. “Did you confiscate mine?” she demanded, perhaps a bit too harshly than she had meant.

“Nope.” He shook his head and held his hands up in innocence. “Haven’t touched it. I think the Seeker took your things to get mended after Haven. Maybe she knows where it went.”

The thought of asking Cassandra fucking Pentaghast if she knew where her smut book was filled her with an anxiety words could not fully describe. “Yeah, no, I’ll pass. I’m sure it’ll turn up somewhere.”

Blackwall reached the top of the stairs then. He gave Varric a polite nod but completely ignored Cole, brushing by him as if he were nothing but air. Startled by his unusual show of disrespect, Bridget opened her mouth to admonish him but Cole’s soft voice in her ear stopped her.

“He can’t see me, because I’m not letting him. It isn’t the time; not yet.”

And then she realized he was no longer there, and his voice was just an echo. Varric didn’t seem disturbed in the least, as if he was used to it, and just waved in cheerful farewell. “That’s my cue to go,” he said as he headed towards the stairs. “Don’t be a stranger! Come to the tavern some night for a game of Wicked Grace.”

With that he was gone, leaving Bridget alone with the Warden and his griffon.

“Soooo,” she drawled as she tried desperately to ensure she looked much calmer on the outside than she actually felt, “how was the Inquisition’s illustrious new commander today?”

“Grueling,” Blackwall grunted out with a wince as he removed his sword and began to start on his breastplate. “Provision reports went smoothly, as did plotting troop movements in areas the Inquisition has brought under its protection.”

“I’m sensing a but.”

“But then a new mage recruit came into Cassandra’s office to tell her that she needed to control the Templars at Skyhold.” He sighed in frustration as the breastplate came off and clattered metallically on the ground. “Long story short, the mage had been provoking some Templars and they threatened retaliation with the Rite of Tranquility.”

Bridget winced. She’d recently read about the Rite—a way to cut off mages from their magic, only to be used in extreme circumstances, but was often abused and seen as a quick fix for simple problems. It robbed the mages of who they were as a person.

The mage rebellion had sworn to cooperate with the Inquisition, as did a handful of Templars who were focused on righting the Order’s wrongs. But that didn’t mean tensions were completely eradicated.

“Yikes.” She found herself shivering involuntarily, even though she knew the Templars at Skyhold weren’t like Cullen or the ones infected with red lyrium. She hadn’t felt that seething hatred and intent to destroy from any of them.

“The matter was sorted, but Cassandra asked me to spar with her afterwards. Actually, command is a better way to phrase it.” He pulled the greaves off now and added them to the pile of armor on the floor. “Evidently I make a better punching bag than the training dummies. She made certain to get her anger out. It didn’t go over well when I asked her to go a little easier.”

“I wasn’t aware you were made of glass,” Bridget teased lightly.

“Broken glass,” he responded with a good-natured scoff. “I’ve been through worse, but Maker knows she swings harder than you expect.” He sank down onto his straw mattress and eyed the pile of books that she had been devouring. “You’ve been quite busy.”

“The library here is a dream, especially since new stuff gets added almost every day with more and more people donating things to the Inquisition!” She bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet before throwing a dark look at Garahel. “However, _someone_ doesn’t seem to care about his own history at all. He tried to eat a manuscript detailing Warden Garahel’s battle with Andoral at Ayesleigh.”

He answered with a huff and ruffled his wings, paying attention to nothing in particular as he avoided Blackwall’s scathing gaze.

“Really, Garahel, it’s important to understand those events. They are part of why you’re here today. You could at least try to listen!”

“I’m sure the past is boring to him considering the present,” Bridget said. “Who needs Archdemons and Blights when you’ve got a murderous sentient darkspawn hellbent on throwing the world into chaos?”

Garahel’s ears perked at this and he bobbed his head up and down rapidly, golden eyes sparkling. He rumbled deep in his chest and nudged Blackwall’s sword where it lay on the floor with a retractable claw.

“Does this mean you’d like to do some training?” Blackwall rolled his eyes when Garahel responded by puffing his chest out and preening grandly, looking all the part like a true majestic beast of war. One whose mortal weakness was morning belly rubs.

Bridget felt a thrill of excitement wash through her. “Training? Can I watch?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

“I don’t see why not.” He cleared his throat, somewhat awkwardly. “But are you certain you would like to? It may be a bit boring.”

“You watched me play with lightning. I’d like to return the favor. Besides,” she clamped her arms around Garahel’s fluffy neck and gave the side of his head a smooch. “I want to see him fly! Jumping to and from the rafters doesn’t count.”

“Ah, that’s right, you’ve not witnessed that spectacle yet. He’s been able to fly the day after you crawled out of the mountains with Vazrah, but just last week was when he was strong enough to carry me. We haven’t tried it with a full set of armor, however.” Blackwall picked up the sword and armor and placed them in the big wooden chest that was halfway hidden in the shadows and hay. “His saddle and reins are with Master Dennet. I’d rather not attempt using the spear until he’s completely used to me being on his back, so we’ll leave that be for now.”

“Oooh, did you have to have a custom-made saddle for him?” Bridget questioned curiously as she followed him down the stairs and over to where Dennet kept all of the riding equipment. Garahel trailed behind, his head held high in anticipated excitement.

“The cache we found along with his egg had drafts and exceptional instructions on how to create one,” Blackwall explained as he stopped in front of the wooden wall outside of the stable with dozens of reins and saddles hanging from nails. His hands reached for the largest one—she could tell that it was exceptionally made from how sleek the browned leather appeared, and the Inquisition symbol was etched into the side.

Garahel presented his back to the two of them and Blackwall showed her how to put it on the griffon. It was actually easier than getting it onto a horse (or even Pookie for that matter) on account of how well he understood commands. The reins were simple to slip onto his aquiline head and rested just above his beak.

“You look so spiffy,” Bridget couldn’t help but comment when they were done, patting him on the flank. “A fearsome beast of war! All you need is some armor of your own, and you’re all set.” An idea came to her, and she grinned brightly. “We should get a matching set for you and Blackwall!”

“One step at a time, please,” Blackwall urged mildly, looking somewhat flustered at the prospect. Garahel, however, gave a snort in agreement and shook his head emphatically.

It was impossible to avoid the throngs of people that milled about Skyhold’s main courtyard as they made their ways to the gate. Some halted in their tracks and flatout gaped at the sight of a griffon, while others merely raised impressed eyebrows. It was obvious to tell who were newcomers to the Inquisition and who were not on their reactions. Garahel sucked up every stunned gasp, practically prancing like a feathered showpony.

For a moment, it was briefly reminiscent of a cattle showing at the county fair.

Minus the ripe aroma of cow manure and corndogs.

Ten minutes later they were outside of Skyhold in a small valley that cut into the mountains. The mid afternoon sun was high and bright, making the snow and ice gleam almost blindingly if one happened to glance at just the right angle. A chilling wind cut right through Bridget on account that they so high up in the mountains and without the protection of giant fortress walls around them. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her from watching Blackwall and Garahel and merely drew her cloak closer to her body, finding a boulder that wasn’t covered in ice and sitting down.

 _My butt’s going to be so numb after this,_ she lamented inwardly as she did so, pulling her legs up and resting her chin on her knees—all while doing her damnedest to _not_ shiver.

Of course, Blackwall was far too observant at times for his own good. “Are you going to be alright wearing just that?” he asked as he heaved himself onto Garahel’s back, looking her up and down with concerned eyes. “I should have warned you it was much colder outside of Skyhold…if we need to go back so you can grab something warmer, I’ll—”

“Psht, nah, I’m good!” she exclaimed with a somewhat stubborn thumbs up, forcing her teeth not to chatter as she spoke. “I used to sleep with the window open during the dead of winter back in college. I liked the contrast of a crisp breeze and a pile of blankets to burrow into.” _Wearing nothing but a pair of underwear, but you don’t need to know that._

“If you insist…”

He briefly stared at her steadily for another moment before turning his full attention to Garahel, scratching one of his ears and grabbing hold of the reins. He leaned forward and said something in a low voice she couldn’t hear. Garahel shook his head, spread his wings slightly, and dug his paws into the snowy mix beneath him before leaping into the air with all the grace of a feline.

Watching a griffon take flight was one of the most beautiful things Bridget had ever witnessed.

His powerful wings created a small whirlwind as he ascended like some great beast of mythology. Which, even here in Thedas, he really was. Blackwall’s weight seemed to be nothing to Garahel as he went higher and higher, until the two of them were at least fifty feet up. His cream-colored coat gleamed in the sunlight as he let out a victorious cry, a mixture of a lion’s roar and an eagle’s warble.

Bridget’s heart panged with an odd mixture of nostalgia and envy as she watched Garahel divebomb an unseen target and halt midair, pulling up immediately like he had done the maneuver a dozen times.

“I want to fly,” she murmured to no one in particular, because the blizzard during the escape from Haven had been far too harrowing to even attempt such a feat—especially with an injured Vazrah in tow. She remembered the sheer strength that had coursed through her veins while in dragon form; how invincible she’d felt, as if it was how she was meant to truly be. Desperately, she tried to summon the scales and fangs and claws once more, sending a silent plea to the storm to engulf her in thunder and lightning.

But nothing happened. Save for a familiar warmth that started deep in her soul and spread to every inch of her bones, and a small shape that suddenly weighed down inside her cloak pocket.

“Hope!” she all but shrieked as the horned head of said dragon wriggled out from the folds of the fabric. Bridget gathered the tiny form in her arms and hugged Hope against her chest, almost shuddering in relief at the physical contact.  

“You’re choking me,” Hope wheezed out. Bridget immediately lessened her hold and Hope scrambled up her chest to take her place perched on her shoulder. Her reptilian snout pressed against her cheek and the soothing hum that rumbled throughout her body vibrated deep within Bridget; that beloved calm and sense of peace, that everything was right in the world...she could almost sob from the sheer joy it brought her to feel it again.

“Are you all better?” Bridget asked as she leaned her head to the side, covering Hope in a mess of brown hair in an attempt to feel even closer to her. She kept her eyes on the form of Garahel in the sky—even with Hope’s return, she still had that painful ache in her heart as she watched his wings beat in sync with the air currents.

“It seems so. I shouldn’t have to return for quite some time, unless I do something foolish and let everyone in the Inquisition become a dragon.” The whimsical tone in her voice made Bridget crack a smile, but it faded when the sensation of electricity crackling in her throat floated back up in her memories.

“...I want to do it again,” she admitted quietly. Hope stiffened slightly, and intense guilt washed over her like a tidal wave. “B-but if it’s going to drain you, and make me sick, I can forget the whole thing happened. I just...I just…”

She trailed off uselessly, expecting a gentle rebuke, but Hope surprised her.

“No, I can’t expect you to never think about it again. Giving you the full dragon form was what made everything so dangerous.” Hope unburied herself from Bridget’s hair, amethyst eyes bright. “But getting you accustomed to the magic of the form, a little bit at a time? I think that will work. It may still tire the both of us, but nowhere near the amounts that the transformation at Haven did.”

The hot, tense ball in the pit of Bridget’s stomach slowly began to unravel. “You mean...kind of like how people ingest a little bit of poison every day to gain an immunity to it?”

“Not the metaphor I would have used, but yes.” Hope nodded vigorously. “You may have had a natural affinity for the storm, but dragon magic is a whole other beast. Literally.” Bridget snorted at the comparison and Hope smacked her lightly in the face with her tail. “We’ll start off small and slow. Nothing terrible straining.”

“Can I try something right now?”

She hated how restless she sounded, but Bridget couldn’t help it. It had been in the back of her mind, a constant since waking up in Skyhold. She wanted to stop feeling useless. And even if Vazrah didn’t ask her to come along on whatever excursion the Inquisition needed, then honing her magic and the dragon form was the next best thing.

“I don’t see why not. But I _know_ you haven’t told Blackwall how you managed to rescue Vazrah. Are you certain you want him seeing you practice it?”

The question was not unkind, and Bridget understood where Hope was coming from, but it was the least of her worries. “I think he and Garahel are going to be preoccupied enough not to notice, and it’s not like I won’t see them coming. Besides, what I have in mind isn’t going to be too obvious.”

She took a deep breath, ignored the shiver that threatened to run through her when a particularly cold wind snaked around her, and held out her hands in front of her. She reached deep down within the well of energy that she recalled from Haven; the connection between Hope and her, and her own connection to the storm that swirled inside every fiber of her being.

Bridget _pulled._ She tugged at the power, coaxing and calling to it like one would a stray cat, Hope’s sweet scent engulfing her nostrils as the dragon reached out and lent her own strength. Her fingers tingled like they did when she was casting a spell, only the buzzing sensation covered her entire hands. The faint aroma of ozone drifted from her skin as the pale, smooth surface puckered and itched. Quick, sharp pricks of pain erupted from beneath her fingernails, like she had a hangnail that had gotten stuck on a stray piece of fabric.

And then her hands changed.

Indigo scales covered the skin, shiny and hard and stopping right at her wrists. Black talons emerged where her fingernails once had been. They glinted dangerously as she flexed her fingers, making sure she had full control over the muscles and nerves despite the inhuman transformation. Everything worked as it always had, and a bubble of laughter escaped her lips as she gazed at her draconic hands in triumphant wonder.

“That’s not obvious?” Hope joked, but Bridget could hear the underlying pride beneath the snarky quip.

“I can just shove them in my pockets if need be. It’s not as obvious as, uh...horns, or a tail, or wings. Pretty much all the defining features of a dragon.” Bridget snapped her fingers and a spark of lightning flared to life, hovering just above the blue scales. It crackled in the cold air, inching along and coming to a rest on the surface of one of the talons. Thunder rumbled in her mind. The storm, greedy and remembering the chaotic power of the dragon form, wanted more.

 _Not yet,_ she chastised it lightly, flicking the orb of lightning towards the ground. It fizzled out in the snow and ice, leaving a small hole in its wake, and the storm huffed its annoyance at her from wherever it was that magic resided. But it did not push at her and the thunder dissipated into silence.

Garahel suddenly let out a shriek from high above. Bridget looked up at his magnificent form gliding through the air and this time, her heart did not squeeze itself dry at the sight. Instead she smiled, closed her eyes, and let herself be battered by the freezing wind of the Frostbacks.

Soon.

She would fly as far as her wings and Hope could take her very, very soon.

\---

Bridget was shaken awake the next morning by a pair of strong hands. She grumbled and blindly batted the hands away, burying her face further into the pillows and the warmth of the fur blankets she had burrito’d herself in.

Garahel and Blackwall had stayed out for longer than she had expected the previous day, and holding the draconic hand transformation had taken a decent chunk of her energy. The moment she had finished eating at the tavern (finally seeing Sera and Dorian and a handful of others after Varric had cajoled her out of her little hermetic episode), she had said an exhausted goodbye and dragged herself through Skyhold to her quarters. Promptly passing the hell out the moment her body sank into the bed, much to Hope’s chagrin as the dragon had been nestled inside her pocket.

The hands shook her again. “Bridget, it’s Vazrah. Time to wake up.”

“Nnnnghhh…” she groaned and lifted her head up, groggily blinking as Vazrah’s towering form came into focus. She had lit a fresh candle in the lantern hanging by her door and the room was filled with a smoky incense. The qunari was dressed in a sleek black leather ensemble that accentuated her curves, yet also held an air of sophistication. It looked like something Vivienne had gotten tailored specifically for Vazrah, which probably was the case. The court mage’s splendor and grace was frighteningly blinding at times.

“Mmmm...sexy,” she mumbled as she rubbed at her eyes, yawning and stretching until her neck cracked. “I had a long day yesterday...kinda wanted to sleep it off…” Somewhere amongst the blankets Hope stirred as well, though she stayed hidden beneath them. Drowsily, Bridget wondered if Hope knew that Vazrah was aware of her existence, but was too tired to fully comprehend the thought.

“Bull and the others who were excavating Haven returned early this morning. Mother Giselle is going to have a memorial for those we lost, now that we’ve recovered a lot of the bodies.” Vazrah scratched her nose and shifted awkwardly, avoiding Bridget’s eyes and flicking an imaginary piece of lint from her shoulder. “As Inquisitor, I’m expected to attend but...you’re one of the few friends I have who, like me, doesn’t really give a damn about Andraste in all this. So I wanted to ask if...you wouldn’t mind coming with me?”

“Oh.” The question woke her up fairly quickly, and she stared at Vazrah’s nervous frown. “Am I expected to, uh, chant religious stuff at all?”

“No! No, I’d just feel better if you were there.” Vazrah sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I don’t want to make all those deaths into something that was ‘preordained.’ I don’t want to pretend like Andraste holds my hands whenever I cast a spell. These were normal people, who didn’t deserve to die the way they did, and I just want to honor their lives without throwing the Maker in there.” She shrugged halfheartedly. “It’s real people who are fighting with the Inquisition, and real people who are dying every day. There’s nothing divine about it.”

Bridget scooted closer while still remaining wrapped up in the blankets. She felt what Vazrah was saying deep in her soul. Organized religion and her always had a rocky relationship back in her old world. It was even more so here considering she was still uncertain of what Andrastianism all pertained, so she didn’t quite understand each nuance of the Chantry. She wrapped Vazrah’s arm closest to her in a hug. “I’ll come.”

“Thank you.” Vazrah paused, clearly trying to think of what to say next, when Hope chose that moment to crawl out of the blankets and into Vazrah’s line of sight, a white ghost among the otherwise dark fur. Qunari and dragon stared at one another in silence for what seemed like forever but in reality couldn’t have been more than five seconds, and then Vazrah exclaimed, “She’s even smaller than I thought she’d be!”

Hope drew back slightly, affronted, tail flicking like a pissed off cat. “I _can_ be larger. This size is just more convenient.”

Panic seized Bridget as she watched the two exchange words. “U-um...so I may have told Vazrah everything—”

“I know,” Hope cut her off, somewhat amusedly as she settled into a more peaceful stance. “And it should be fine, as long as she keeps it between us. Frankly, you handled it much better than I expected.” This was directed towards Vazrah, who was watching Hope like a kid in a candy store.

“Are qunari descended from dragons?” she blurted out breathlessly. Bridget had completely forgotten about the possibility and that she’d promised to ask Hope.

Hope cocked her head, blinking rapidly, obviously taken aback by the question. “I...am not sure,” she admitted slowly. “I suppose it’s possible? Forgive me—I haven’t always been in Thedas, so some things are beyond me. I don’t sense my kind in you. But that doesn’t mean your theory is wrong. It’s been centuries since my kind disappeared; who’s to say they _didn’t_ become qunari, and I just can’t tell?”

Vazrah’s shoulders slumped in disappointment for a moment, but her eyes still held a keen fire to them. “I won’t give up researching it. If you think of anything that can be of help, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Neither she nor Bridget mentioned the possibility of the Old Gods and Archdemons being the original dragons. It was most likely already a thought forming in the back of Hope’s mind, judging by the pensive look in her eyes as she silently stared at nothing in particular.

Half an hour later Bridget was following Vazrah to the gardens, shoveling a thick piece of rye bread with butter slathered on into her mouth. Hope was in her usual hidey hole inside the cloak pocket (she didn’t question the random griffon feather, so Bridget had a feeling the dragon had a pretty good guess about what it was for).

The hallways of Skyhold were crowded with the faithful and mourning, many of them chanting verses in hushed tones. Bridget inched closer to Vazrah when they passed a small group of Templars, resisting the urge to hold the qunari’s hand. Almost everyone gave Vazrah a respectful nod though they kept their eyes towards the ground, and Bridget half-expected them to cross themselves or something. But that wasn’t a motion with significance in Thedas, so of course no one did.

The gardens swelled with crowds of people. In the pavilion stood Mother Giselle, leading some kind of hymn and holding a red candle while gazing solemnly out amongst those gathered. When Vazrah’s tall, horned figure appeared, the older woman gave the subtlest of nods but did not beckon her closer. Dozens of human-shaped lumps were lined up in the center of the garden with canvas sheets thrown over their forms. Bridget noticed Cassandra and Leliana kneeling down over one of them with their heads bowed in silent prayer; it was significantly smaller than the rest, and a familiar set of armor was resting where the head should have been. It was dented to shit and covered in something dark brown, but the symbol of a sword in the middle of flames was still visible on the front.

Bridget looked away quickly, swallowing bile down her throat as she stumbled behind Vazrah. The aromatic scent of herbs and flowers was nearly overpowered by the sickly sweet stench of death and sorrow. Somewhere, a harrowing sob cut through the rhythmic murmurs of prayer, like the sound of someone’s soul being torn in two.

Vazrah came to a stop on the outskirts of the crowd, probably trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, but considering she was one of the few qunari in the Inquisition it was fairly obvious who she was. Josephine was there dressed in a bleak yet somehow still fashionably exquisite mourning ensemble of a black gown, holding a bouquet of vibrant daisies in her hands. Blackwall was just behind her, head bowed and hands clasped in front of him, face solemn and steely as he stared at the ground.

No one said anything; everyone merely acknowledged one another with a silent nod as Mother Giselle began to speak out over the crowd of mourners, her voice clear and strong and unwavering. Bridget tried to listen—she truly did. But it felt like being back in grade school when she was forced to go to a church of something she didn’t know if she believed in, and her mind wandered. Her hands fidgeted in her pockets, the fingers caressing Hope’s scales and the griffon feather alike. She felt herself shift closer to Blackwall without really realizing it; felt his shoulder brush against hers, warm and sturdy and strong. Whatever holy scripture Mother Giselle was quoting morphed into a gentle hymn and the crowd took it up in their arms as dozens of voices joined in, creating a sonorous choir that actually wasn’t half bad. The melody drifted into her brain and embedded itself there as she found herself swaying in tune, wishing not for the first time in her life that she could have faith in something other than herself.

It wasn’t that she hated organized religion, she surmised, but it just wasn’t for her. She’d always preferred the gods of ancient myths and dead civilizations but it wasn’t like they’d ever answered when she’d called out to them on lonely nights full of insomnia and a longing for a place she hadn’t yet found. As long as people let her be about what she did and did not believe in without pressuring her to change her mind then she’d do the same, no judgement necessary. Back home something like that...wasn’t as easy as it sounded. She hadn’t even considered what it was like in Thedas even though the Inquisition was quite literally a holy crusade of a sort.

 _Gotta hand it to them though,_ Bridget thought at one point as her gaze meandered upwards, to where Skyhold’s citadel displayed a multitude of stained glass windows depicting well-known scenes of Andrastianism, _they sure know their shit when it comes to art._

The memorial ceremony lasted an hour and while Bridget had barely paid any actual attention to it, somehow her heart felt lighter when it was over. The crowd began to disperse, though some stayed, many of them bent over canvas-covered bodies and shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Josephine and Vazrah silently drifted away and Bridget did not feel it was right to follow them, but she watched them out of the corner of her eye.

They came to where Cullen’s disfigured form lay beneath the sheet and Josephine set the bouquet of daisies in the middle. Vazrah waved a hand over it and each petal and stem burst into flickering flames that flashed hot and bright before dying out almost as quickly as it began, leaving nothing but a circle circle of ash. Their attention then turned to Cassandra and Leliana and the four women appeared to be locked in a serious conversation.

Bridget nudged Blackwall’s boot with her foot as faintly as she could considering he looked deep in thought. He started, eyes blinking rapidly, and gave her a questioning glance.

“Um…” She cleared her throat anxiously, trying to look him in the eyes but instead failing and focusing on spot on his shoulder. “I don’t know why I feel the need to admit it, but I just do, so uh...when Haven was attacked? I kinda lost it and stabbed one of those Red Templars guys to death. After having my thunder wolves mauling him. He hurt Pookie, and I just...yeah.” She held up her hands uselessly, shrugging.

“...do you think I’m going to be upset about it?” Blackwall asked quietly, his voice a little hoarser than usual.

“Maybe? I don’t know. There was that weird moment awhile ago where I said killing didn’t bother me, and I mean it.” Bridget sighed and tugged on a strand of hair. “I want to prove that I can be useful, especially now that there’s some ancient darkspawn magister running around threatening to throw Thedas into even more chaos. If it means I have to get my hands dirty, I will.”

“I know.” Blackwall’s mouth turned into an odd sort of smile, one she couldn’t quite figured what kind of emotion it was trying to represent. But then he put his hand on her shoulder and the comfortable weight of it was too good to dwell on the strangeness. “You’re a strong woman, Bridget. You don’t have to prove it to me, but if getting more involved with the combat aspect of all of this feels right, then that’s what you should do.”

She released a tense breath she wasn’t aware of holding. “Oh thank god. You have no clue how much I need your validation.”

“She’s like a puppy and you’re the bone,” Hope piped up from her pocket, and Bridget felt her face grow hot.

“That’s not even an accurate analogy!” she hissed, glaring daggers at the hidden dragon and scowling as Blackwall coughed into his hand awkwardly.

“Ah, you’re right. My apologies. Bridget’s a puppy and Blackwall is the hand that gives her belly rubs every time she whines.”

She groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose, flushing even more when Hope dissolved into a muted fit of snickering. “Shut up!”

Fate decided to rescue Bridget from further embarrassment at that moment. Vazrah walked up to them, face set in a somber yet determined grimace.

“I hate to ask this so suddenly,” she began, “but there’s something I need to go take care of that Hawke brought up. I was wondering if both of you would—”

“Yes,” Bridget responded enthusiastically before Vazrah had finished, which made the qunari do a double take in surprise.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“Varric mentioned it yesterday. And hell yeah, I wanna come with.” Bridget straightened up, feeling slightly guilty at the glee that was bubbling up within her when the mood in the garden was still melancholy.

“I’m afraid I am at a loss as to what you’re both referring to,” Blackwall grunted out.

Bridget grinned up at him, rubbing her hands together and bouncing on the heels of her feet. “We’re going to go Warden hunting! In Crestwood, with Hawke, to find a Warden friend of hers and figure out why they all disappeared.”

“I have also just been informed by Leliana that a giant Rift has appeared in Crestwood and inundating the area with undead and demons, so…” Vazrah lifted up her left hand, covered by a sleek leather glove, and gave it a shake. “It’s time to do some more crowd control on those nasty green bastards.”

A flash of something akin to worry and fear appeared in Blackwall’s dark eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a thoughtful curiosity. “Wardens...I can’t remember the last time I saw others. If this friend of Hawke’s truly knows why they’ve all disappeared...When we do leave?”

Vazrah smiled somewhat remorsefully at him but her eyes, fierce and tenacious, glowed with an emerald fire that made Bridget’s fingers itch. “Right now.”

 


	14. petrichor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter happened in a way that i most certainly did not expect, because i am but a meatpuppet who must obey the commands of the horde of tiny rats controlling my brain.
> 
> when you get to THAT scene (you'll know what im talking about), put on ref:rain by aimer. it really helps set the mood :3c

It was a good thing Bridget didn’t have a lot of belongings that she needed to bring along to Crestwood. When Vazrah said “right now,” she had meant it.

The party arrived in the war room only an hour after the memorial service. It consisted of Vazrah, Hawke, Varric, Blackwall, Bridget, and Garahel. Because Blackwall didn’t trust the griffon not to cause trouble, nor did he really trust anyone in the Inquisition to “properly” supervise him. Deep down it was most likely his fatherly instincts taking over and refusing to let his son out of his sight. Bridget wanted to bring Pookie along but dragging a nuggalope all the way through Skyhold was easier said than done, and considering how adversely Garahel had reacted to the teleportation spell from the Storm Coast all those weeks ago, she didn’t want  _ two  _ motion-sick, vomiting animals on hand.

She was slightly surprised at the choice of members for the particular mission—Varric was kind of a no brainer since he was glued to Hawke’s side, but Bridget expected Vazrah to ask Dorian or Sera or Bull to come with to add a little more combat variety. She mentioned as such while Vazrah was getting the spell prepared (of course, scouts had already connected it to a camp in Crestwood days before, because Leliana’s people were far too efficient for their own damn good).

“Bull wanted to come, but I ordered him to get some rest, because he and the Chargers went above and beyond on their mission to excavate Haven. Dorian is working on some research with Alexius, and Sera is taking care of her own Red Jenny business.” Vazrah didn’t look up from the runes inscribed on the stone floor as she hovered her hands over it, face drawn in effortless concentration.

“Worried we won’t be able to handle things?” Varric teased.

“No, not at all!” Bridget shook her head emphatically. “I just figured, since Crestwood is such a large area, we’d bring a couple more people to cover more ground.”

“Bah, we’re more than enough!” Hawke insisted with a grandiose gesture, clapping Bridget on the shoulder. “You’ve got a bloody griffon to do air reconnaissance; we’ll be perfectly fine.”

Blackwall looked like he wanted to interject, but was cut off by Josephine clearing her throat politely. “This will be the Inquisitor’s first official field operation since being declared Inquisitor. Do try and act in an appropriate manner befitting the Inquisition now that we’ve so many noble and influential members of society backing us. And please give my regards to Mayor Dedrick of Crestwood.”

“My agents will be at the ready should you require their assistance, Inquisitor,” Leliana added with a short bow of the head from where she stood hovering over the war table, gazing over a map of Ferelden that lay across the wooden surface. Where Bridget assumed Crestwood was, she had placed a metal chess piece of sorts that resembled the hairy eyeball of the Inquisition. 

Cassandra was nowhere to be seen. After the service she had said something about training and dashed off before anyone could stop her, but Bridget suspected she didn’t want to be in the same room as Hawke. While she’d still been unconscious, Varric and Cassandra had gotten into a very public fight about Hawke’s whereabouts being kept secret. The Seeker had never kept her admiration for Hawke and her accomplishments quiet, so it was most likely a case of extreme embarrassment for letting her temper get the best of her. 

“Thank you, and there’s no need to worry. I’ll make sure everything goes...swimmingly.” Vazrah snickered when Josephine and Leliana both groaned in tandem, smiling innocently. 

With that she motioned for the group to stand in the teleportation circle. It was much bigger than the one at Haven, but even so it was a tight squeeze to fit everyone inside with Garahel too. Blackwall and Varric visibly swallowed as the runes beneath their feet began to glow a soft white that enveloped the entire group. Garahel pressed himself flush against Bridget and whined in the back of his throat, recalling his first experience with the teleportation magic, and she rubbed his ears reassuringly. His massive weight would have nearly knocked her over if not for the spell taking effect at that moment.

Like before, Bridget felt a numbing sensation wash over her body as Skyhold’s war room faded into darkness. There was that familiar popping noise in her ears, the kind that denoted intense pressure changes, and after an eternity that was also a mere second in time, she was outside.

It was raining. Not the light, erratic drizzle of the Storm Coast, but a consistent rainfall accompanied by the scent of rotting fish and dirty water. The sky was a smudged gray full of thick, billowing storm clouds as thunder rumbled through them. Low lying fog surrounded the area and the air was humid yet chilly at the same time. 

Garahel immediately stumbled away from her and began to wretch into a patch of grass. Varric and Blackwall wobbled on their feet and groaned, holding their heads, while Hawke and Vazrah stood up straight and surveyed their surroundings. Bridget’s eyes were immediately drawn to the massive lake about a hundred feet away or so, which would explain the smell. And Vazrah’s horrible pun just before they left. A sickly green sheen coated the surface. They were on an embankment that overlooked a dismal beach flooded with puddles and the ripped remains of fishing nets scattered across the sand. Where the Storm Coast had felt peaceful and untamed in its misty elements, Crestwood was the complete opposite. It was somber, and heavy with something Bridget didn’t like that wasn’t just the rotting aroma of death.

“Inquisitor Adaar! Good to see you.”

A familiar voice jolted Bridget from her musings. Scout Harding bounded up to the group, soaked from head to toe but looking chipper despite it. Beyond her were a group of canvas tents and an unused fire pit in the center, the ash and soot mixing with mud and rainwater. Inquisition scouts milled around with their hoods up to protect them from the rain, mumbling to one another and paying the group no mind.

“Scout Harding. What’s the word out there?” Vazrah smiled in greeting, wiping rain out of her eyes.

“Not good, Your Worship. Crestwood is a small farming village, so they’re not really armed to deal with hordes of undead.” She gestured to the lake, rippling with the telltale signs of a Rift. “Old Crestwood is under all that water. It was flooded during the Blight and a lot of people didn’t make it out in time. The undead are coming from the lake, but we don’t know where the big Rift is. There are a handful of smaller ones that I’ve marked on this map for you.” She handed Vazrah a piece of damp parchment, who glanced at it briefly before shoving it safely into her pocket.

“How are things here at the camp?”

“Oh, we manage. The undead seem to be focused on attacking Crestwood rather than us and we help them as much as we can. We did see a small group of Grey Wardens come through yesterday; I think they’re looking for your Warden friend, Ser Hawke. They weren’t very happy.” Harding addressed Hawke at this, voice laced with concern. 

Hawke frowned. “Last I heard, he was ignoring Commander Clarel’s orders or something, so they’re probably hunting him to drag him back to Weisshaupt. Which is a load of bollocks, considering what he’s managed to do for the order.”

Blackwall’s head snapped up at that. He remained silent but Bridget saw something pass through his eyes and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword, almost involuntarily. Garahel (now done vomiting) bumped his head into Blackwall’s shoulder and trilled low in his throat. 

“We should go to Crestwood first, to see if they know where this big Rift is, and then find your friend,” Varric suggested. “Civilians and the undead doesn’t usually mesh well.”

“Does this mean I get to fight zombies?” Bridget whispered offhandedly to Blackwall as Vazrah bid farewell to Harding; the party followed her as she skidded down the embankment and onto the muddy road that snaked through the hills, leading to Crestwood beyond the fog.

“Zombies…?” He furrowed his brow in utter confusion and the word sounded foreign in his voice.

“Oh. Uh. Guess you don’t call them zombies here, just undead. Oops.” She coughed into her hand, trying to sound nonchalant. “A-anyway...I didn’t realize the weather here was going to be so crappy. I like rain, but this is...sad rain.”

“Isn’t all rain sad?” Varric piped up from behind. 

“Really, Varric, you’re a novelist. You should know that there are different kinds of rain,” Hawke scolded him with a mischievous glint in her eyes and a subtle nod at Bridget. “There’s sad rain, and there’s romantic rain, of course.”

“ _ Romantic _ rain?” Blackwall and Varric scoffed at the same time. Garahel snorted and shook his head, glowering at Blackwall in particular, as if to say “Oh, you haven’t heard?”

“You know! The kind that makes you want to grab the one you love and hold them in your arms as the two of you get absolutely drenched.” This time Vazrah chimed in, smirking quite impishly at Bridget, and she suddenly did not like where the conversation was going. “It’s terribly romantic to be in the middle of a rainstorm after confessing your heartfelt feelings to one another.”

“Y-Yeah. Sure.” Bridget swallowed, her skin suddenly very itchy as she fidgeted underneath the combined gazes of Aoife Hawke and Vazrah Adaar. It was like two suns trying to burn a hole into her body.

“Crestwood just doesn’t have that type of rain,” Hawke sighed dramatically, shaking her head. The raindrops melted off her scar and dripped down her chin as she spoke, seeming to puncture her meaning. 

“The Storm Coast does, most definitely,” Vazrah added in a lofty, sage-like tone that needled Bridget right in the heart. “The cliffs and the sea just add to a certain tenderness.”

Blackwall was looking baffled as his gaze darted back and forth between the two women. Varric was clearly holding back laughter, his cheeks puffed out slightly and the corners of his lips curled in the beginnings of a devious smirk. His eyes darted to Bridget for just a moment; he winked, and she wanted to melt into one of the many puddles flooding the road when she realized what was happening.

_ Varric told Hawke. Hawke told Vazrah. THEY’RE TRYING TO BE MY WINGMEN. _

**Oh, dear.** Hope’s amused voice drifted into Bridget’s mind as she screamed internally, gait falling behind the rest of the party.  **They mean well enough. And you** **_are_ ** **quite obvious about how much you** —

_ Shhh! Stop talking! This is a disaster and I am ready for the sweet embrace of death. _

Fate chose that moment to summon a particularly loud clap of thunder. It exploded in the midday sky, escorted by a jagged line of lightning right in the direction they were walking, striking the ground an uncomfortably close fifteen feet away. Everyone save Bridget jumped slightly at the startling event and the rain intensified a couple of levels, coming down in thick blinding sheets that almost completely obscured the path. 

And then the zombies showed up.

Well,  _ undead.  _

They shuffled out into the deluge, clothes in moldy tatters and hanging off of skeletal limbs. There were four of them, dislocated jaws hanging open as inhuman moans whistled through broken vocal chords. White wriggling masses of maggots could be seen inching along exposed patches of decomposing skin. Their eyes were cloudy and unseeing; one had both of them drooping from its sockets, held together with thin pink strands of flesh. Bloated and pale, the four undead stretched out with broken fingers and groaned as they reached for the party.

The rain did nothing to spare Bridget from the putrid aroma of rot and she coughed as her eyes watered, doing her best to breathe through her mouth instead of her nose. The undead were slow and moved like they were swimming through molasses. They must have been skulking about in the hills, hiding until some more victims showed up, and timed their arrival exactly with the deluge of rain for dramatic effect. Unfortunately for them, the group was not comprised of unsuspecting farmers.

Before Bridget could call upon the storm and vaporize their moldy bones, Varric slung his crossbow into his grasp and loaded it with a clutch of bolts at a blinding speed. Even with the rain pouring down and making it difficult to see more than three feet, he aimed at one of the undead in the middle of the group with flawless precision and pulled the trigger.

The crossbow bolt whizzed through the air and shot a path through the rain, sinking into the decaying chest of the undead with a thunk. It halted in its tracks and with an unnatural movement resembling some kind of clockwork construct from a steampunk horror, began to lower its head as if to look at it in surprise.

It didn’t get the chance to examine the bolt sticking out of its chest, because immediately the undead exploded. 

The bolt let out a fizzing noise, kind of like a sparkler during the Fourth of July, and there was a small flash of orange and red from inside the undead’s chest. And then the thing just...came apart. Its limbs and head flew in all directions as rotten flesh and various dangly bits of indescribable grossness joined the rain. Bridget jerked back just as a hand came whizzing past her, nearly smacking her in the face.

A slab of bloated flesh managed to land right in her hair just as she dodged the flying hand, however.

“Ew! Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew  _ ew _ !” she shrieked, pawing at it desperately with her fingers and trying to get it out of her hair. But considering it was down and sopping wet from the rain, it acted as a fishing net of sorts, and the blob just got tangled in the thick strands. Kind of like when you’re cleaning the shower drain trap and pull up a wad of hair and soapy bits that have been there for way too long. 

She was so preoccupied with the zombie shampoo that she didn’t even see Vazrah and Blackwall join in on the undead whack-a-mole. She felt a surge of heat and looked up to see two blackened bodies crumbling into wet ash on the muddy ground and the final undead being speared through the neck by Blackwall’s sword, who effortlessly yanked it sideways. The head popped off like a doll’s and rolled down the mud and landed into a puddle next to Vazrah’s feet, its mouth gaping in a moan that never even made it past its rotting teeth. Vazrah kicked the head with the tip of her boot for good measure as the body flopped into a disheveled heap of soggy bones and swollen skin.

The rain let up considerably the moment the undead were defeated, because of course the weather would be just that atmospheric. 

Garahel trotted over and sniffed disdainfully at the undead Blackwall had decapitated, snorting and rufflings his wings with a shudder. Bridget remained where she was, feeling like she was going to barf as at last she flung the zombie goop from her hair and onto the mud, cringing and giving a shiver of her own.

“Oh god that’s gonna smell,” she groaned, ringing her hair out in some half-hearted attempt to let the rainwater rinse the zombie goop a little more. 

“You alright, love?” Hawke asked with a chuckle, thinly veiled with concern. 

“No. I think I’m going to have to chop off all my hair now. It has been contaminated.”

“I could braid it for you, if you’d like,” Vazrah offered. “With all the rain, having your hair down and free isn’t probably the greatest idea. Not to mention Varric is bound to detonate some more undead.”

“Sorry, Princess,” Varric called out, only slightly abashed, looking like the cat that got the cream as he grinned and tapped the side of his crossbow. “Bianca and I just couldn’t help ourselves.”

“Please do,” Bridget practically begged, ignoring Varric’s apology as she trudged over to Vazrah. The qunari was tall enough that Bridget could just stand in front of her rather than both of them finding somewhere semi-dry to sit on the ground. 

Vazrah’s fingers were quick and efficient, combing through the drenched tangled mess and pulling the thick strands into a braid tight enough that wouldn’t fall apart but not so tight that it would give her a headache. Bridget tried not to relish in softness of her fingers sliding across her scalp, or the care that was evident in each tug. Images of the past floated through her mind—a similar touch, and a similar warm smile, before she knew of the rot hidden underneath the gilded gaze. A voice whispered in her ear, mocking and full of spite, bemoaning how her hair was the only salvageable thing about her appearance. How she would never lose weight unless she stopped eating altogether. How she would never be called beautiful by anyone other than family members who clucked their tongues in pity.

Bridget tore the voice and memory apart with an inward, vicious snarl. She didn’t have the time nor the energy to think about that, not now. 

“There you go.” Vazrah patted her on the top of her head when she was finished, completely unaware of the battle Bridget had just fought for the briefest of moments. “I have some crushed rose and lilac powder in my pack you can use if you think it’s starting to smell. It’s also useful for setting a certain  _ mood  _ involving a certain Warden.” This was added with a conspiratory wink as she pushed Bridget away and nodded subtly in the direction of Blackwall.

“I know what you’re doing and I appreciate it yet kind of want to stab you at the same time,” Bridget hissed under her breath, fingering the braid nervously. Blackwall was too intent on talking with Hawke and Varric to hear Vazrah’s comment, but Garahel’s ears perked and his head swiveled knowingly in the direction of the two. He seemed to be smirking as Bridget fidgeted under his golden gaze, which was physically impossible considering he had a beak and not an actual mouth.

_ Damn his super griffon hearing and his ability to understand pretty much everything we say. _

The group continued onwards once Bridget was satisfyingly free of zombie goop. The rain slowed down to nothing but a polite mist and the air became slightly more humid, the clouds above lightening in color and looking not as angry or dismal. The wetness permeated everyone’s clothes and created a sticky, muggy feel that reminded her of Florida. But not so heavy that it was hard to breathe, and definitely not so hot that she was going to pass out from heat exhaustion at any given moment.

Briefly, Bridget wondered if Thedas had tropical beaches and if so, where they were. Were swimsuits even a thing here?

_ Not that I’d be entirely comfortable showing off so much skin,  _ she lamented inwardly.

When the party came to a crossroads of sorts, an eroded statue of Andraste pointing the way to Crestwood’s village, there was a feminine shriek that pierced the air. A few yards away there was another group of undead, this one as decayed and gross as the first, but with a very clear distinction: they were armed. Apparently in Thedas, zombies could use bows and swords, even though the rigor mortis should have made it theoretically impossible. Yet there were seven of them with rusted blades in their bony fingers and one slowly notching a rotted arrow. They were all advancing on a slender elf woman cowering against a decomposing pole that once had served as a lamppost of sorts if the empty brazier was any indication, a sack of potatoes at her feet.

As soon as the elf woman noticed the group, she cried out, “Please! Help me!”

They wasted no time. Hawke mumbled something under her breath and held her staff out, the end shooting off some sort of silvery and thin strands of magic that curled around everyone like serpents and enveloped their bodies in a layer of magical armor of sorts. 

Bridget felt her magic flare up inside her soul, as if she had just drank half a dozen shots of caffeine, and when she flexed her fingers the storm eagerly answered the call by lightning sparks at the ends of her fingertips. Her senses felt heightened and her blood rushed to her head, pumping her full of adrenaline. “Whoa,” she whistled, impressed, grinning at Hawke. “You’re basically damage boosting us! It’s like having a real-life Mercy to pocket you!”

“Don’t know what that means, but you’ve got approximately three minutes where your strength and abilities have been enhanced. I’ll stay back and heal you if need be!” Hawke hopped back a few feet, sticking close to a large boulder while keeping her staff raised. The silvery threads that connected her to everyone else followed her and tugged ever so slightly at the end of Bridget’s consciousness. It was fascinating and she made a mental note to ask about support magic in more detail when the timing was appropriate.

Varric was already shooting at the archer undead, using what appeared to be a normal bolt instead of the exploding one. Two bolts stuck out from its eye sockets and it was waving its arms around frantically, trying to aim at its attacker but without being able to see, the effort was meaningless.

Vazrah was twisting her staff in elegant arcs, small fireballs blasting from the end and swirling like angry stars in the air before slamming into the chest of one of the sword-wielding undead. It let out a garbled shriek of pain as its shredded attire burst into flames and ate away at its diseased flesh. The scent of burning skin and hair filled the air; it was not an appetizing smell when combined with the ever-present dead fish and stagnant water aroma. 

Blackwall rushed into the fray with his shield held out as a battering ram of sorts, pushing into the undead and using the momentum to slide his blade between the rusted armor of one of them and plunge it into its shoulder. It dropped its sword and let out a ghastly scream, clawing at the blade with broken fingers. The undead not being pelted by fireballs or crossbow bolts surged into Blackwall, their own swords aiming for his neck, but Garahel gave a shriek of his own and charged like a runaway horse, slamming into two of them and knocking them out of the way. He pounced on the duo, ripping their swords from their grasp with his beak and gouging into their decaying skin with his claws, wings flapping wildly so that a mini whirlwind prevented the rest from coming anywhere near him and Blackwall.

**Dear heart, you’re missing out on all the fun!** Hope’s voice echoed in her mind and her tiny claws poked at her side from her pocket hiding space. 

Bridget had been so preoccupied with watching the rest of her team kick ass that she had somewhat forgotten that she was supposed to join the fray too. “Ah, shit,” she muttered while fumbling with Mjölnir, grip tightening on its handle while simultaneously raising it above her head. Thunder rumbled in the clouds above as electricity coursed through her veins, surging wildly. She tasted ozone, that familiar flavor promising power and meaning. Something crackled in the air and a great bolt of lightning shot down from somewhere beyond the sky, encapsulating the remaining undead in a blue-white column of stormy rage. 

When the lightning faded, all that remained was a pile of ash and patches of grass still sparking with electricity. Bridget let out a breath she wasn't aware of holding as the magic settled on her skin, the static shock comforting and welcome. She would never tire of how wonderful calling the storm made her feel.

A quick glance towards the rest of the party confirmed everyone else having succeeded in their quarry. Varric was looting the archer undead and sticking the remaining arrows in his own bolt case, even though they were two different projectiles. Probably to make them into something more useful later. The half-charred corpse of Vazrah’s victim smoked like a barbecue. Blackwall was kneeling on the ground, wiping his blade free of viscera and zombie bits on the wet grass. Garahel hovered over the two undead he took down, staring at them in a stony silence. He sniffed at one of them and recoiled as he did with the ones before, shuddering in disgust.

“I don’t think you’re going to find any undead that are edible, bud,” Bridget called out to the griffon as she bit down a laugh. “They all seem pretty, uh. Undead.”

Garahel shrugged his furry shoulders, a completely human gesture, and pushed the bodies away with his paws like a cat declaring a toy to be unfit.

“Are you alright, miss?” Vazrah asked the elven woman as she approached, who was shivering slightly and frighteningly pale. 

“I-I...yes, I believe so. Thank you.” She nodded, giving a shaky but appreciative smile. “Are you with the Inquisition? Your runners came and told us in Crestwood that you’d be arriving to help deal with the undead.”

“Yes, we are.” Bridget noticed how Vazrah didn’t voluntarily share that she was the Inquisitor. “I assume Crestwood is close.”

“Just beyond that hill.” The elf gestured to the mound of rock where a dirt path cut into, the broken remains of a cart scattered on the ground. In the distance smoke could be seen rising into the sky, though it was difficult to make out considering both were of the gray shade. 

“What were you doing away from the village, if you don’t mind me asking?” Blackwall cut in, sheathing his sword and adjusting his shield. “With a rise in the undead, you should be sticking close to the rest of the population.”

“Tending to my fields,” she answered sheepishly, nudging the sack of potatoes next to her with her foot. “There’s not enough room in the village for me to have my own plot, so...I have one out here. With all the rain we’ve been getting, everything has been rotting. I have to harvest as much as I can.”

“Not enough room? What a crock of shite!” Hawke crossed her arms, eyes blazing. “I’ve been to Crestwood. Not within the last year, but I know the village has plenty of fertile fields.” She narrowed her eyes, and the elf woman fidgeted uncomfortably as a ruddy flush began to rise in her cheeks. “...it’s because you’re an elf, innit?” Hawke’s tone was quiet and reserved, but no one could mistake the slight tremble that betrayed a sense of ire and rage behind her words.

“W-well...I can’t blame them…I suppose I’m just thankful they let me live in the village, is all.” The poor elf shrugged miserably. It was a gesture that said more than words—a gesture that said she had tried again and again, only to fail and barely pick herself back up.

Bridget knew that kind of shrug. She had seen it in her world, time and time again, and it broke her heart. She knew Thedas had its own special brand of persecution that went beyond mages and non-mages, considering all the history she’d devoured since arriving. But to hear of the other kind in a situation outside of the realm of paper and pen—the racial oppression—made her wish she was more than just an accidental alien without any real significance. 

Hawke voices what Bridget was saying in a growl. “Those tossers can all feck off. What’s your name? The Inquisition is always needing more people, and Crestwood doesn’t deserve you. You can—” She cut off, seeming to remember that Vazrah was standing right there. The qunari in question gave a subtle nod, the muscles in her face twitching and her body language stiff with the anger that Hawke was radiating in waves. “You can join up,” Hawke continued, putting her hands on the woman’s shoulders for emphasis. 

“Oh. I, er…” She blinked rapidly, surprise blooming in her slender face. There was a hopeful little light that began to glow in her tired eyes. “My name is Jana. All I can really do is farm and cook, ser. Would the Inquisition  _ really _ need someone as plain as me?”

“Without a doubt.” Blackwall cleared his throat, chin up and standing proud. “It’s the plain and simple folk that are the true heart of an organization as complex at the Inquisition. Who feeds the hungry? Who clothes the cold? Who heals the sick? Honest, good, hard working people who are nowhere near the fighting and politics of it all. People like you.”

Everyone stared at him, and he shifted uncomfortably, no doubt unused to so much attention thrust upon him at once. “And there is no tolerance for slights against someone for their blood,” he mumbled awkwardly. “There are biased people, of course, but the Inquisition is about coming together to fight a common enemy. Such attitudes are dealt with swiftly.” 

“They usually get eaten by a dragon,” Bridget piped up cheerfully. 

Jana looked at her in confusion. Everyone else did a combination of exaggerated eye rolls and “too soon” facepalms. 

“The way back to the Inquisition camp is clear of undead. For now.” Vazrah pointed in the direction they had come from. “If you decide that you would like to join, head that way for half an hour. Tell Scout Harding you were approved by Adaar. They should be able to get you all set for Skyhold.”

Jana looked like she was going to cry. Her mouth trembled and she took a deep breath that ended in a gasping sigh, wiping at her eyes quickly. “Thank you, sers. Truly. I must think on it a bit longer, but the choice is more than I ever could have imagined getting.” She smiled warmly at Blackwall, her cheeks blushing a pretty pink rather than the nervous flush from minutes before, and Bridget felt a hot surge of jealousy that made her muscles twitch.

_ Calm down, idiot! She’s just being friendly! Besides, it’s not like you have a claim on him! _

Bridget felt even more stupid when the relieved smile shifted to Hawke, and Jana bowed her head slightly. “It’s been some time since I’ve met humans as kind as you. Your words mean much. Thank you, and may Andraste bless the Inquisition.” 

It seemed the conversation was over. Jana picked up her potatoes and headed in the opposite direction of where she said Crestwood was, but not quite where Vazrah had pointed out the Inquisition camp. The elf didn’t hadn’t even seemed to be astonished by the fact that there was a living griffon in her midst, but maybe the Inquisition runners had already told Crestwood what to expect from their little group. Vazrah took the lead and everyone filed in behind her, making their way along the worn path.

Bridget fell into step along Hawke, whose face was scrunched up and eyes glassy from being deep in thought. “You seemed really upset about that whole ‘not enough room’ situation,” she said as casually as possible, one hand in her pocket to scratch Hope’s head. 

“Two of my closest friends are elves. I’ve seen the shite they deal with personally, just for being elves.” Hawke clenched her fist so tightly her knuckles went white. Bridget did not miss the way Varric subtly brushed by, his thumb and forefinger caressing the top of her hand, nor did she miss the fleeting pained expression on his rugged face when he glanced up at her for the barest of moments. 

Hawke sighed, unclenching her hand, and her fingers twitched slightly. As if she wanted to do nothing more than grab onto Varric’s but fought the urge judging by the way her jaw clenched. “Fenris and Merrill are good people. Just because their ears are pointed doesn’t make them lesser than humans. It wasn’t just mages I wanted to help when I fought back in Kirkwall; everyone deserves to have an equal and fair chance at life.”

“You’re a kind woman, Hawke,” Blackwall interjected softly from where he trailed behind the rest of the group. “Kirkwall was lucky to have you.”

She scoffed, but it wasn’t bitter or angry. “Shame the Chantry and the uppity folk didn’t think so. There was so much more that we could have done.”

“You  _ can _ do more. Just not in Kirkwall, not yet. Thedas needs all of us, because we seem to be the only ones with the right mind to get everything back in order.” Vazrah rubbed her forehead and grunted indignantly. “Though it would have been nice to have you during the dragon fight.”

“I don’t know much about dragons, but if it’s a horde of rampaging qunari, then I’m your Champion.” 

“I  _ am _ a horde of rampaging qunari.”

The two women exchanged grins and something unseen passed between them. A new understanding, maybe, that made the air between them lighter and more calm. The conversation died when they rounded the end of the hill and Crestwood came to view in all of its backwaters peasant glory.

The buildings were small wooden shacks in the same Nordic style as the houses in Redcliffe, only much more drab and clearly suffering from neglect. Many of them looked to be rotting on the outside with an occasional hole in a thatched roof. Crumbling chimneys spat out weak puffs of smoke. Stone walls that had seen better days showed distinct property lines even though they looked like Bridget could kick them and they would fall apart like a sandcastle. The skeletal remains of barns were scattered across the moorish terrain, small and extremely flooded fields decorating the area near the village gates. 

It was eerily silent as they entered Crestwood. The kind of silent that usually meant everyone was inside and really did not want to greet an imposing group of strangers. Some of the homes had window panes which were swung open, revealing sparsely furnished interiors and people huddling around a fireplace, gazing with desperate eyes as they passed.

One elderly man was sitting on a wooden box in his doorway, whittling a block of wood with a dull knife. Blackwall’s face perked immediately upon sighting the activity, but he stayed silent and a couple feet back as Vazrah approached looking as dignified as a wet qunari could.

“Hello. We’re looking for Mayor Dedrick. We’re from the Inquisition, to help with the undead and Rift problem. Could you tell us where he lives?”

The old man didn’t even look up, continuing to carve at a slow and meticulous pace. “Biggest bloody house in the village. Can’t miss it.”

It was obvious she wasn’t going to get any more than that. Vazrah thanked him and looked up, scanning the rest of the village—in the corner, at the top of a set of rocky stairs, was a house quite larger and obviously in better shape than the rest of them. 

They made their way over to what was most likely the mayor’s house, huddled outside as Vazrah knocked on the door. It swung open a couple moments later but Bridget didn’t catch the face nor the voice that greeted them. Because laying lavishly on a barrel that was nestled up against yet another stone wall was a cat, and she was already in front of it before she even realized her feet were moving.

It was the first cat she had seen while in Thedas and dammit, if she didn’t pet it or at least talk to it, she would never be able to forgive herself. 

“Awww, look at you!” She cooed, bending down so that she was eye-to-eye with the cat. It was a slender tortiseshell whose fur was impeccably groomed and blinked at her languidly with yellow eyes, tail flicking to and fro. Garahel trotted up behind her, chirping inquisitively, and the cat just gave him a nonchalant yawn. “You’re such a pretty girl!” Bridget practically squealed, holding her hand out a few inches away and moving very slowly. The cat stretched her neck and sniffed, cold noise tickling her fingers, and rose from her queenlike position to bump her head into Bridget’s entire hand. A loud purr vibrated from the cat’s throat and pulsated through her fingers.

Bridget melted. 

“I love you,” she whispered fiercely, and for a moment her eyes burned with hot tears. Evie. She forgot about Evie again. Her best friend, who had been with her for half her life, who knew all her secrets and never said a word. Who could calm her down just by laying next to her, shoving her furry little head in her face and tickling her nose with her whiskers.

The one thing she would always want to remember, and she had forgotten again.

_ I hope...she’s doing okay, and that my parents haven’t kicked her out like they always used to threaten. ...has time even passed in my world since I jumped? Does anyone even know I’m gone? _

An aura of calm concern settled on her skin. The tightening in her chest lessened. Hope fidgeted from inside her pocket, poking her tiny head out, amethyst eyes filled with worry at Bridget’s sudden shift in mood. “I’m okay,” Bridget mouthed down to her, wiping her eyes with her free hand and focusing on rubbing the cat’s ears with the other. 

Garahel leaned into Bridget’s side, sensing the bleak shadows that had covered her for a brief moment. She leaned back, resting her head against his shoulder, and scratched the cat under her chin. She cleared her throat, ridding her voice of whatever tremble that may have shown up. “Do you have a name? You probably belong to someone…”

The cat pulled her head away and jumped off of the barrel, landing on top of Bridget’s knees. The suddenness of it all surprised her and she almost lost her balance, crying out softly when five pounds of feline showed up. Without thinking she scooped the cat into her arms and stood up fully, holding her so that the cat could comfortably wriggle free at any time. She didn’t appear to have any desire to do so, however, purring even louder and blinking up slowly at Bridget with half-lidded eyes. 

Garahel chirped again and the cat’s ears twitched. She meowed, sounding almost exactly like Evie, and butted the bottom of Bridget’s chin with her head. Garahel met Bridget with his golden eyes and gave the slightest of nods and somehow she knew what he (and the cat, by extension) were saying. 

This time her tears did spill over. But they were happy ones.

“I don’t know why you’d want to come along, but of course you can,” she whispered hoarsely to the cat, rubbing her face against the sleek fur. “Your name is Sylvie. Because Sylveon doesn’t make sense to anyone here, and I have to continue the tradition of naming cats after Pokemon.” She laughed softly, nervously, and Sylvie answered by scrambling up onto her shoulder with ease. The cat seemed quite content, tucked in the crook of her neck and digging her claws into her cloak. 

“You’ve stolen my spot,” Hope complained quietly, frowning at the cat. It didn’t last long when Bridget wiped her tears away once again and stroked Hope’s scales, apologizing with a simple smile. 

Bridget turned back around to focus her attention on the mayor’s home. Just as she did so the door swung open and everyone else shuffled out the house, a renewed sense of vigor cloaking them. She barely caught a glimpse of a middle aged man waving them out before he shut the door—quite harshly, in her opinion—and then everyone was watching her with bemused expressions.

Blackwall in particular took one look at Sylvie perched elegantly on her shoulder like she had been doing it for years and groaned into his hands. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’ve gone and adopted another animal.” The complaint was good natured at the heart of it, judging by the way one side of his mouth curled up ever so slightly.

“Her name is Sylvie. Garahel has sanctioned her passage into the Inquisition. I love her.” Bridget scratched the cat’s throat to demonstrate. 

“Best leave Sylvie here. We’ve just been tasked with clearing out a fort overrun by bandits; it has access to a dam that can drain the lake, letting us find the Rift much easier.” Vazrah rolled her neck and cracked her knuckles, looking much more eager than she had previously now that there was a bit of a clearer mission at hand.

“Wouldn’t want her to get eaten by demons or something,” Varric added knowingly. 

“She’s a cute little bugger, that’s for sure!” Hawke cooed and did as Bridget had done, cautiously stretching out to Sylvie and letting the cat decide on the amount of contact. Sylvie sniffed at Hawke’s hand and rubbed her cheeks against her fingers, eliciting an elated squeal from Hawke. Bridget nodded approvingly, glad to see someone else knew proper feline etiquette.

An epiphany hit her then. Bridget dug her hand into her pocket, pulling out the griffon feather and the leather strip that she had intended on using to make Blackwall a simple wrist charm that was supposed to give the wearer luck. The holes were already punched into the leather; all she had to do was weave the feather in and out, encircling the entire thing, and then brought it up to Sylvie’s neck. The cat sat still and allowed Bridget to wrap the rustic collar around, tying it in a double knot. A spark of the storm entered the collar the moment it was finished and Sylvie’s hair puffed up slightly from the static electricity. But other than that, she remained impassive and seemed to not even notice her new apparel.

“She’ll be fine!” Bridget exclaimed proudly, blowing on her fingers for extra show. “Garahel asked her to come, so she knows the dangers. And I have my ways of making sure we can find each other.”

“...does that leather match my gloves?” Blackwall questioned, raising a somewhat startled eyebrow as he peered at the collar. Vazrah hid a knowing snicker (very poorly) behind her hand and Varric and Hawke exchanged mirrored smirks. 

“...o-oh yeah, I guess you’re right. Well, I, uh...just found it around! I thought it was cool!”

He opened his mouth to say more, but Bridget deflected what was sure to be a train wreck of a conversation by pushing past them all and setting her body in the direction she hoped this fort was. “We’re wasting time just standing here! Don’t we have some bandits to take care of? Let’s go kick some ass!”

“Caer Bronach is that way, love,” Hawke deadpanned, hooking a thumb in the opposite direction.

“Right. So it is. My statement about kicking ass still stands.”

\---

Caer Bronach was big. Not as big as Skyhold, and it definitely did not have the elegant architecture the mountain fortress did, but it was an impressive fort all in all. It reminded Bridget of Redcliffe’s castle design-wise and unlike Crestwood, it wore its age well. It was also heavily fortified, with high stone walls that would be impossible to breach without battering rams and catapults. Impossible if one didn’t have a flying griffon in tow.

“The doors look like they can be destroyed with a lot of force, but that would alert the bandits to our presence,” Vazrah hummed thoughtfully as the group milled in front of Caer Bronach’s main entrance. “Dedrick couldn’t tell us how many are holed up in there and I’d rather deal with this as quickly as possible.”   


Varric chuckled quietly to himself as he surveyed the walls. “Shame we don’t have Tiny with us. He could throw us over the walls as we attempt espionage.” 

“Bah, I’m sure we can take it if we just bust through the door!” Hawke exclaimed, waving her hand arrogantly. 

“Perhaps some of us can. But the Inquisitor has a point. We should use stealth to our advantage, rather than brute force.” Blackwall gave an experimental push against the heavy set of wooden doors, scarred by decades of weather and battle. They didn’t budge. Which was to be expected.

Bridget and Garahel looked at one another, then to the group puzzling out the best plan of action, and finally returned their gazes to each other. “Uh, guys? Did y’all forget that we have a fucking griffon?” Bridget held her arms out at length to emphasize Garahel’s presence, wiggling her fingers insistently.

Blackwall cleared his throat awkwardly, glance askew as he avoided Garahel’s pouting gaze. “It’s not that I forgot. I suppose I am...still wary on testing his abilities in actual combat.” 

“You saw how adept he was taking down undead! He needs the experience if you want him to improve!” Bridget patted Garahel’s face, who was now employing a griffon version of the puppy dog eyes. She joined in, lowering her gaze and blinking at him coyly under her lashes, frowning dejectedly. 

Blackwall made a strangled sound in the back of his throat that kind of sounded like he was dying on the inside. “You are not wrong,” he replied slowly, cautiously, body tense as Bridget and Garahel continued their assault on his mental defenses. She added pursing her lower lip to the act, clasping her hands in front of her like a penitent pilgrim.

Sylvie, sensing the mood (or most likely urged on by Garahel through some kind of animal telepathy), daintily stepped off of Bridget’s shoulder and planted herself down onto Garahel’s head. She gazed at Blackwall with the enigmatic eyes only a cat could own while her tail swished to and fro in a hypnotic pattern. 

The standoff did not last for much longer. He groaned loudly and held his head in his hands. “You win,” he grumbled exasperatedly. “He needs the experience, and we need the most efficient way of claiming this fort.”

“Cool beans. Garahel and I will handle this, you guys just hang tight and wait here!”

Clearly none of them had been expecting her answer because they all gaped with jaws hanging wide as she scrambled into Garahel’s back, seating herself in the nook between his neck and wings. They hadn’t brought his saddle and reins but she had ridden bareback plenty of times in her younger years—granted, her aunt’s horses were old and slow as a snail, and the trails were most assuredly on land and not in the sky.

But Bridget couldn’t help herself. She wanted to fly, and if she wasn’t strong enough for her own wings just yet, borrowed was completely fine.

Sylvie leapt from her perch on top of Garahel’s head and landed on all four feet with ease, trotting over to Hawke and weaving in between the Champion’s legs. Blackwall snapped out of his shock and made a move as to rush up on the griffon, brows furrowed and mouth drawn in a thin line of alarm. Bridget and Garahel thought in tandem and she urged him on with a sharp whistle, smiling apologetically to Blackwall when he was just inches away.

And then Garahel took to the air. It was nothing like being in an airplane; she could  _ feel _ the wind rise with her, the rain smacking against her face and her body heaving with a thousand butterflies. His wings pushed from behind her, beating against her back almost like they belonged to her as well. She was acutely aware of each breath he took the higher they rose and began to time her inhaled and exhales with him. There was no Bridget. There was no Garahel. There was only wings and sky and the saccharine taste of freedom that she had desired nearly her whole life.

She spread her arms out and gave a whoop of exhilaration that was lost to the wind and rain. “ _ This _ is what I’ve been missing?!” she complained to the dragon in her pocket and the griffon underneath. “How could Blackwall not want to experience this every day?”

She leaned over Garahel’s shoulder and glanced down at the ground. They were high enough that it was impossible to make out everyone’s faces but she could feel the combination of exasperation and apprehension radiating from them in waves. She would apologize in full later. She had to do this—had to feel alive, and useful, regardless of what everyone else may have thought was best.

They circled the perimeter of Caer Bronach like a vulture eyeing a fresh carcass. Its size diminished this high up in the air. Much of the fort was open ground; stables of some sort were located at the front and an upper level that appeared to be the barracks and living quarters was mostly hidden by stone roofs. At the very back of the fort, Bridget could make out a stone bridge connecting some path hidden in the trees and shadows to a large building sitting on the dam like a confused man made turtle. The lake’s sickly green shine was even more prominent at an aerial advantage. 

A speck of movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She gestured for Garahel to double back, remaining in the fogginess of the rain clouds to conceal their joint form. A small group of people emerged from the wooden structure Bridget assumed was the stables. “Ready to make them all shit their pants?” she asked Garahel with a wicked grin.

His answer was a raucous cry, shrill and deadly, as he tucked his wings in his side and dive bombed straight down. 

She was glad her hair was in a braid, otherwise it would have been an absolute monstrous mess with the way the wind whipped past her. A slight sense of vertigo bubbled up inside her and everything spun from the unexpected speed of the griffon’s descent. But it faded as quickly as it came and she summoned the storm in her soul, the magic spreading through her veins and crackling all around. 

Bridget couldn’t even imagine what they looked like, girl and griffon rushing from the clouds with electricity surrounding them like a stormy shield of vengeance. 

The ground came much quicker than expected, but it was like they had practiced the whole maneuver a thousand times. Just as Garahel was about to clip the tops of the bandits’ heads with his claws, Bridget hoisted herself up onto his back, balancing precariously as the force of the wind threatened to knock her right off. And then she jumped, for the second time in her life, from a rather problematic height. 

Only this time it was with neither and end nor a beginning in mind: just a long continuity of the present.

She miscalculated, of course. Instead of landing perfectly on her feet in the middle of astonished and confounded bandits in order to electrocute them before they could even draw their weapons, Bridget dropped from Garahel and onto the wooden roof of the stable, screaming in panic as her boots skidded along the slick surface. Her arms waved wildly, desperately trying to find a purchase, but the momentum from the jump combined with the slippery slope of the roof was not working in her favor. She slid off and tumbled into a pile of soggy hay that fate had deemed to place just under her area of descent, landing with a groan.

“Ugh!” Bridget spat out a mouthful of the hay, which tasted somewhat like expired oatmeal and dirty lettuce. The storm had kept with her during the jump, still encircling her form in electric blue armor. The only thing to be heard was the distinct crackle of the magic and the soft patter of the drizzling rain as the bandits (five of them, definitely more than she had originally thought) and Bridget calmly regarded one another.

She raised a hand and gave a little wave, smiling nervously. They were  _ extremely  _ well armed and had better armor than most of the recruits Cassandra was constantly whipping into shape. “Greetings from the Inquisition! ...mind handing over this fort to us?”

“What in the name of the Maker’s balls just fucking happened?” one of the bandits asked the rest of his compatriots.

Their answer was to draw their swords and daggers, and rush at Bridget with a chorus of ugly war cries.

But unfortunately for them, they were wearing armor made from metals not enchanted to deflect the very magic she wielded in the palm of her hands. The storm sensed it, nudging her with such a tasty little tidbit of realization. She remained where she sat in the hay, pushing the shield of storm energy outwards and concentrating on the invisible strands of magic that she could feel deep in her soul. She stretched her arms out, fingers trembling as timed seemed to slow. In reality it was the adrenaline; the sheer rush of battle as she weaved the lightning into human-sized nets with nimble fingers, flicking her hands at the bandits and encasing each one in a web of electricity that clung to their already wet and very metal armor that sucked up the magic like a smoothie through a curly straw.

The poor bastards didn’t even stand a chance. The moment the storm had them in its hungry grasp, they stiffened. There was a sound like a powerline sparking, the only indication of the magic taking affect, and then they were electrocuted from head to toe. It was nearly comical the way their bodies spasmed and their screams were cut off as one by one the life died from their harsh eyes, dropping to the mud and twitching occasionally. The air smelled like ozone and burning flesh. Their armor was melted and twisted into their skin in almost artful patterns. Sparks ran down their twitching limbs and a breathless laugh bubbled on Bridget’s lips.

“Wow,” she panted as she stared at the pile of corpses. “That was a rush.”

“Nicely done.” Hope popped her head out from the pocket, humming with a proud sense of pleasure that washed over Bridget and settled into her bones. “You’re getting quite creative with your magic, aren’t you?”

“The storm asks. I deliver.” She shrugged nonchalantly, using Mjölnir to prop herself back into a standing posture. “When you’ve spent most of your life thinking about what you would do if you had magic, some of it comes naturally.”

A loud cracking noise caused her to jerk her head in the direction of Caer Bronach’s heavy wooden doors. The wood splintered and fractured, and a very heated Blackwall burst through with his shield pushing against the door. The entire frame collapsed in a sea of wood chips and splinters, resulting in a ear splitting sound not unlike nails on a chalkboard. He charged forward as the rest of the party trailed behind him, Garahel in the very back with a languid Sylvie resting on his back. Neither of them looked particularly bothered by the scene of five bandit corpses still twitching and covered in excess storm magic glowing vibrantly in the seams of their armor.

“Good news, everyone! Mission complete!” Bridget greeted them with a thumbs up and a cheeky grin, body swaying to and fro in a happy little victory dance.  

It was then that she noticed the fuming expression on Blackwall’s face, the way his eyes narrowed, and the stiffness that made him appear as stony as the walls surrounding them. He advanced on her, boots stomping down so hard that he sprayed mud and rainwater in all directions. 

“Are you  _ mad?! _ ” he demanded harshly when he was right in front of her face, eyes just as stormy at the sky above. “Going off like that, without an actual plan of attack, all on your own?! What if you had been  _ killed _ , Bridget?!” His hands were on her shoulders now, and he loomed over her like a bear full of rage. “You aren’t invincible, even if you’re of the mind that your magic makes it so.” 

“O-oh.”

She hadn’t thought about it. Not really. She’d been so concerned on proving herself, so selfish to finally fly, so eager to taste the storm again. 

But he was right. 

And she was an idiot.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, squeezing her eyes shut to avoid seeing the disappointment and anger in the lines of his face. But it was no use—the image was burned into her brain, as was the sound of his raised voice echoing in her ears. “I just thought—I wanted to…”

_ I wanted to make you proud.  _

The unsaid confession twisted in her mouth and died down on her tongue as she hung her head in shame, face hot and hands cold yet sweaty. 

Silence hung in the air. The kind that made her want to scream.

“...we’ll go ahead and scout the remainder of the fort. You two can catch up when you’re ready.” Bridget heard Vazrah’s words and felt her brush by, her fingers brushing by. They were warm, and comforting, even more so than the frantic waves of calm that Hope was trying to send out towards her. It wasn’t until the sound of three pairs of boots faded completely away that she forced her eyes open and looked up at Blackwall, prepared for that stormy face full of displeasure and wrath. 

But what she met was eyes heavy with regret, and a face drawn in bitter remorse as Blackwall loosened his hold on her shoulders. “No,” he murmured in a voice barely audible. “I’m who should be apologizing. It wasn’t right of me to—to reprimand you so harshly, as opposed to dealing with it like a rational man.” He stepped back slightly and scoffed, rubbing at his face and eyes. “Unfortunately, I’m not always a rational man when I’m with you.” 

He let out an exhausted sigh and flopped down in the pile of hay, not even seeming to notice how gross and wet it was. Bridget found herself doing the same and didn’t even care about their slightly moldy choice of seating.

“The feeling’s mutual, dude.” She stared at her hands, guilt making them shake. Her voice was hoarse and raspy and when the rain began to fall in a heavier flow once again, she barely registered it. “Sometimes I jump into things without really thinking about it. I get so excited that I don’t think about the consequences.” 

She was vaguely aware of Garahel and Sylvie creeping off in the direction of the rest of the party. She and Blackwall were completely, utterly alone. The rain was coming down in earnest now, big fat drops that rolled down her cheeks and made her shiver. But they remained in the sopping pile of hay, shoulders brushing and breathing loudly in tandem. 

“...it’s usually how I push people away.” The admission hurt more than she realized it would. A lump rose in her throat, making it difficult to talk, and she felt nauseous. “I do something stupid and selfish, because I can’t imagine my actions affecting others, and then I end up being the type of person I usually hate.” She drew in a shuddering breath and forced herself to push the tears down back into the black hole in her heart, because if she broke down now she would never forgive herself. He had to know. Some of it, at least, he deserved to know. “Deep down I’m a terrible person, Blackwall, because I’m so used to dwelling in the black hole that’s self pity that I don’t know how to act when things are actually decent. So I...self destruct, I suppose. So things can go back to being shitty. It’s easier that way. It’s hard to get better, when you’re comfortable in your own sadness.”

She gestured magnanimously to the walls of Caer Bronach around them, a hitch in her voice. “I’m genuinely trying to move past that vicious cycle. I didn’t realize attempting to handle this on my own was one of those stupid and selfish choices, and I am so damn  _ sorry _ —” she choked on the word, shoulders shaking with the force of keeping the sobs in and teeth chattering as a tight ball of anxious guilt coiled around her heart and  _ squeezed. _

Bridget tore her gaze away from her hands and looked at Blackwall, inhaling the scent of the rain and trying not to fall apart. “I don’t want to push you away with stupid shit that hurts the both of us. I don’t want to push you away  _ at all.  _ Because for the first time in my life, I feel like I’ve met someone I can be better with.” 

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Everything felt hot and tight, like the very air itself closing in on her. She could hear the frantic thumping of her heart, trying not to go into overdrive as it and her brain battled one another in a war of wills as to how the next words that flew out of her mouth would play out. Her skin itched. Her soul wanted to jump out of her body and escape somewhere as far away as possible.

She took the plunge.

“I-I’m in love with you, Blackwall.” It was a whisper, stammered and shaking and reckless with emotion. 

He stared.

It was like watching a sheet being pulled away from the sunrise. A light lit in his eyes and his face relaxed more than she had ever really seen it. His mouth opened, closed, opened again; a hand reached out towards her and the ghost of a touch brushed by her cheek as he leaned forward ever so slightly. 

And then he was cupping one side of her face while the other hand found purchase at the small of her back, pushing her forward and flush up against him as his mouth met hers. 

_ Oh my god, this is really happening. _

Her surprised yelp was lost against his lips as Blackwall kissed her and every other thing around her melted away. The scent of leather and musky pine enveloped her senses. Her eyes fluttered shut and her hands moved on their own, snaking upwards and hooking around his neck as she pulled herself even closer, face wet with rain and maybe some tears that finally fell free. His beard scratched at her cheeks, not at all uncomfortable and more unexpected than anything else. 

His mouth was hot and fierce and sturdy. She heard herself make a sound somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, and the hand on her cheek moved to the back of her head, fingers digging into her hair. Blackwall clutched her to him, the way a drowning man clings to driftwood, and Bridget lost herself in the sea of  _ him.  _ Time stopped existing. Space became nothing but the rain and him. He broke away briefly and the two gasped for air, his face flushed and eyes heavy. Bridget used the leverage of hanging off of his shoulders to pull herself into his lap, tilting her head and panting with euphoric anticipation.

“Again,” she practically begged, voice husky and coming from somewhere she hadn’t known existed. “Kiss me again.”

Blackwall smirked. It was the smirk from weeks ago, when he’d been testing the waters, and she’d nearly jumped ship. A knowing, hungry grin that uncoiled something deep down inside of her. “As my lady wishes,” he growled in a rasping tone, and then he descended on her mouth with a force that felt like he would devour her.

She parted her lips before she was fully aware of doing it. His tongue slipped inside and she tasted rain and salt and lightning. It was dizzying, with Blackwall holding her so ardently and kissing her with like a storm at sea. She’d fantasized about it, dreamt about it, but nothing could compare to the real thing. It was even better than what she had so often imagined it could be. The scratchy texture of his beard, the warmth of his hand on her back and his fingers digging into her scalp as he pushed her closer...the way his mouth danced with her own, picking up where she faltered and so hungrily leading the way when her uncertainty made itself known.

Blackwall tasted like home. He  _ felt  _ like home.

Moldy pile of hay aside, there was never a moment so utterly perfect that Bridget had ever experienced like this.

They came apart a second time, breathing hard and gazing at one another with swollen lips. Blackwall’s hands found their way to both of her cheeks and he pulled his forehead close, resting it against hers as a shuddering sigh ransacked his burly frame. His breath, hot and sultry, fanned her face. “I wanted to kiss you that day at the Storm Coast,” he confided slowly. “I wanted to...I wanted to tell you how much you mean to me,  _ truly _ tell you, but I was afraid it would overwhelm you.” 

Bridget’s breath hitched and she licked her lips, shivering from the entangled mess of emotions and heat coursing through her veins.

“You make me want to be a better man. And now, more than ever, I want to be a better man  _ with  _ you.” He pulled away so that she could see his face again, smile so full of adoration that she thought she would die from the joy it brought her. “I love you. I shouldn’t, because I am terrified I’ll hurt you, but I can’t keep ignoring it anymore. Not when I know for certain you feel the same.” Blackwall pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, so different from the starving one of only moments ago. 

Bridget pitched forward, burying her face in the crook of his neck and nearly gasping with relief. “Well shit,” she muttered against his skin, shuddering as nearly all the energy leached out of her body. All the pent up frustration and fear drifted away. The only thing she wanted to do was be in his arms and never move away from him again. 

He tightened the embrace, falling silent. She felt the rise and fall of his chest as she lay against him. His arms were strong and safe as they always were. Every hug, ever stolen glance, every timid smile up until now felt like a dream.  _ This  _ felt like a dream, with the rain soaking into their clothes and her heart pounding and her entire being floating in between an alternating atmosphere of panic and bliss. 

“Forgive me,” Blackwall murmured after what felt like an eternity, lips against her ear as his voice resonated deep inside of her mind. “I didn’t mean to tell you here. I wanted to...court you properly. Somewhere warm and dry, and certainly not after raising my voice at you.” He sounded positively embarrassed and it was much more adorable than Bridget wanted to admit. 

And then the phrase “court you properly” sank in.

_ It’s just their way of saying ‘date,’ right? RIGHT?  _

“C-court me?” she squeaked, pulling away enough so she could gape at Blackwall with a slack jaw and eyes so wide it hurt to blink. 

Even with his majestic beard covering most of his face, it was still clear that Blackwall was blushing as hard as she was certain she was. “I want to court you,” he repeated, tone strained and awkward yet still so deliciously robust. “Maker’s breath, I want to travel the world with you and show you all the beautiful things Thedas has to offer. I want to be the shining candle you can come to when you are shrouded in darkness. I want to  _ love  _ you,” he cut himself off there, kissing her gently for the briefest of moments, his lips barely brushing against her own, “and I want to fight against whatever odds we may encounter, standing by your side.”

Bridget froze. Her heart threatened to crawl up her throat and hand itself over to him on a silver platter. A wave of dizziness grabbed her roughly and she swayed against him, stammering and stumbling over incoherent words. And Blackwall, as patient as a mountain is eternal, simply held her in his arms as she struggled to find a way to answer.

It was too much. 

It was perfect.

“I’d like that,” she finally managed to choke out, ecstatic tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes. “I’d like that very much, Blackwall.”

It was a lame response when compared to the earnest, heartfelt way he had so poignantly declared his intentions. But in Bridget’s defense, it was all just a tad overwhelming, and the last thing she had ever expected this trip to Crestwood to involve was at last coming to terms with her disorientating emotions.

Off in the distance came the sound of something exploding and a chorus of surprised, outrage shouts. Blackwall and Bridget started at the noise, glancing in the direction to find a thick and hazy film of smoke rising in the air from deeper in the recesses of Caer Bronach. He let out a short laugh—it was as light and airy as she was feeling, and for a moment she wondered if she could fly without any wings at all.

“We should probably go see if they need help,” he pointed out as he rose to his feet, brushing the clumps of sodden hay from his armor and clothes. He held his hand out and she grasped it tightly, pulling herself up and doing the same. She didn’t let go, not even when she was fully back on her feet, and he squeezed her hand so tenderly that she almost choked on a surge of adoration.

“When we get back to Skyhold,” Bridget said quietly as they slowly made their way up the stone stairs, “there are some things I’d like to tell you. Things I promised I would share a while ago. I’m ready for you to know now, Blackwall, if that’s okay with you.”

A strange shadow crossed over his face. But it was gone almost instantaneously, and he nodded almost like he was coaxing himself to answer. “And I as well. I should…” he faltered for a moment, and his grip on her hand got tighter. There was a moment of silence, thick with a dreaded unease, and he took a deep breath that made his entire body shudder. “I should be completely honest with you about myself, Bridget. It would only be right.”

She was confused, and a little worried, but the joy of freeing her feelings and placing them in his care...to have him accept them wholeheartedly, and embrace them with a sweetness she had only dreamed about, triumphed over any misgivings. Bridget nodded and leaned her head against his broad shoulder as they walked, the promise hanging in the air between them and a ridiculously wide grin plastered on her kiss-bruised mouth.


	15. inside and out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW LADS this fic got so long i had to start a new doc because my phone's app kept crashing while attempting to write this chapter lmao
> 
> and uhhhh this took forever because i realized...i completely messed up on my timeline i originally had in mine. some stuff in val royeaux was supposed to happen before crestwood, and so i kept putting this off because i was trying to decide if i should remedy it or not. in the end i decided to just keep blazing forward because why retcon what i've already got? it's not like this fic is the epitome of perfection haha. this chapter in its entirety wasn't supposed to happen the way it did but hey, i can't complain when my muse is actually working!
> 
> also i made a blackwall-centric discord! https://discord.gg/mXtZtth here's the invite link, if that sorta thing is your cup of tea. it's kind of dead in terms of activity, but...oh well. im hoping to do a blackwall appreciation month in november, and maybe that will garner some interest!
> 
> i've also gotten my final two commissions for this fic and they made me cry.........i have embedded them in the chapter for your own enjoyment.
> 
> now for some serious bits: halfway through this chapter, after the line break thingy, there's some triggering content. body hatred/dysphoria, eating disorder mentions, and self-harm/scar mentions. just to give a heads up, it's pretty graphic in terms of psychosis. but it was...very, very, VERY cathartic for me to write it out.

A family can be two depressed idiots and their griffon son ;w; commissioned from resjade on tumblr! 

 

and Garahel's canon appearance for this fic! Commissioned from ashenhartkrie on tumblr.

 

 

It was difficult to remove her hand from its entanglement with Blackwall’s when they came up on the source of the explosion, but Bridget was by no means ready for a smartass bombardment from Vazrah and company.

A giant hole had been blasted into the side of Caer Bronach’s stone wall and plumes of smoke were wafting up into the air from the burning rubble. Just a few feet away was a ring of flames and in the center of it all, half a dozen bandits looking singed and angry. On closer inspection, it wasn’t actually the massive wall that had suffered from a magical detonation but rather a section of outcropping buildings that most likely had once served as makeshift lodgings for the bandits. Vazrah, Varric, and Hawke were standing around the walls of fire as the bandits spat curses and obscenities, none of them looking very impressed. 

Garahel was curled up on the ground under a wooden awning with Sylvie laying between his feathers. His ears perked up as Bridget and Blackwall approached but he made no move to get up, evidently too preoccupied with the burden of relaxing in the first semi-dry spot he could find since coming to Crestwood.

“Hey, what’d we miss?” Bridget asked as casually as she could. Both she and Blackwall were somehow both conscientious of being a few inches apart and neither of them spared even a glance at one another, focusing on the sight before them.

“Back so soon! Did you two kiss and make up?” Varric’s teasing tone suggested it was just a joke, but that didn’t stop Bridget from making a pained sound like a drowning goat nor did it stop Blackwall from going very pale and very still and very quiet.

“H-hah...haha...yeah…” she choked out, smiling nervously and wiping her sweaty palms on her cloak as subtly as possible. “We’re all g-good now...no need to worry about us, just...a silly little argument that was fixed with proper communication!”

Whatever Varric was about to quip next was lost in a sea of much louder and more creative profanities from the bandits. Vazrah tapped the end of her staff against her palm impatiently, sighing and rolling her eyes when one got too close to the flames and yelped like a puppy getting its tail stepped on.

“I can keep this spell up for the whole day. I’ll ask again: will you leave the village of Crestwood alone, or do I have to take care of you like my friend over there did to your other associates?” Vazrah nodded in Bridget’s direction and she did her best to look stern and dangerous, scowling with narrowed eyes at the scorched ruffians.

She imagined she probably came off more like a petulant child than anything remotely threatening.

“Fucking Inquisition!” one of them growled, a rather large and nasty-looking brute who easily could have passed for a professional wrestler. “Crestwood is  _ our  _ territory. This keep is  _ ours.  _ We won’t up and leave just because you ask! You’ll have pry it from my cold fucking fingers, you ox bitch!”

Vazrah clucked her tongue and shook her head sadly, as if lamenting the loss of an old friend. Only the slight twitch of her eye betrayed the fact that the slur sunk a few inches into her thick skin. “Never say I didn’t give you a chance.”

She swung the staff up in an arc and the walls of fire converged on the group of bandits and slithered onto the clothes and armor like hellish serpents. They all screamed and clawed at their skin, desperately trying to peel off the outer layers of fabric and metal, but to no avail. The spell ate away at them as if they were bone dry kindling, taking no heed to the damp conditions or rain. 

They combusted at an alarmingly faster rate than Vazrah’s usual spells. In just a few short seconds, the brigands were nothing but piles of ash and plates of mismatched armor and weapons. The acrid scent of burning flesh was snuffed out by the smell of the rain and damp stone surrounding them. 

“That was anticlimactic,” she muttered brusquely, kneeling down and plucking a particularly sharp dagger from the ash. She inspected it briefly, nodded to herself, and pocketed it before turning to the rest of them. “Well, I believe Caer Bronach is now clear and ripe for the Inquisition’s taking. I’ll send a message to Scout Harding to let her know to send some people here; in the meantime, do the rest of you mind performing one last sweep to make sure we took care of everyone?”

Hawke mock-saluted her and nodded vigorously, nudging Varric in the shoulder. “Aye, captain! I believe there was a storehouse entrance on the first level...we should check there first, don’t you think, Varric?”

There was a gleam in her eyes, which Varric matched with a wide and enthused grin. “Good thinking. That way we can also...assess what sorts of supplies they were hoarding.”

_ Oh my god,  _ Bridget thought as the two bounded off back towards Caer Bronach’s entrance,  _ they’re like high schoolers about to have sex in the janitor’s closet.  _

She just hoped if there was food, they would stay well away from it.

“I can attempt to locate the armory,” Blackwall offered as he glanced around approvingly the wide open space of the now-empty courtyard. “This keep will make an excellent addition to the Inquisition’s forces, and it’s in a strategic location, Rifts and undead aside. Nobles and wealthy merchants from Orlais often use this route when traveling to Denerim.” 

“Hm. Perhaps Josephine could arrange something once we get this place cleaned up. A lodging of sorts, for those who have pledged to support the Inquisition.” Vazrah scrunched her face up in thought, frowning. “I’d rather have it be open to everyone, but with how the politics are...” She trailed off and shrugged with a swift shade of the head before focusing on Blackwall. “If you could look for an armory, I would greatly appreciate it. Thank you for offering.” 

“Of course.” He gave a respectful nod. “I imagine the sorry bastards had quite the stockpile of stolen weapons. The Inquisition could put them to better use.” He glanced at Bridget out of the corner of his eye, a cautious and expectant look crossing over his face. She wanted to go with him; truly, she did. But there was a little sliver of flustered unease of being alone with him again now that the cat was out of the bag, and she wasn’t certain if her heart could take it just yet.

And then the sudden realization came to her that Hope had been in her pocket the entire fucking time during the exchange, and hadn’t said a word since, and she really needed help unpacking everything.

“I’ll go find some intact barracks,” Bridget blurted out before she could lose her nerve. She shot him an apologetic smile and an aura of understanding passed between them.

Blackwall bid a silent farewell and stalked off towards one of the many flights of stone stairs, disappearing into an alcove. She wandered away as well, heading into one of the many gaping halls, boots echoing on the wet stone floor. Luck seemed to be on her side because the very first door she opened led to a sprawling chamber filled with mildewed bedrolls and ripped mattresses with straw poking through various holes. It was in dire need of airing out and new bedding, but it would be satisfactory for the Inquisition’s scouts.

Finding private chambers was a little more difficult. After fifteen minutes of wandering the maze that was Caer Bronach’s inner halls, Bridget finally found a small section of rooms that were sparsely furnitured with just one bed and the occasional desk or small side table. Shockingly, the bandits hadn’t torn the rooms to shreds and seemed to have left them alone. 

Which worked out just perfectly for Bridget, because the moment she scoured the final room located at the end of the hall and found no one waiting to shank her, she collapsed on the thin bed pushed against the wall and heaved a heavy sigh. It was not as dank and musty as the bedrolls in the general barracks, but she still wrinkled her nose somewhat as she stared at the dilapidated (and hopefully spider-less) cobwebs on the ceiling. 

From her pocket she felt a wriggling sensation as Hope crawled out, looking somewhat squished. She scrambled up Bridget’s arm and pulled herself onto her shoulder, assuming her usual spot and pressing her cool scaly skin against her cheek. “I was going to return to the Fade momentarily to give you two some privacy,” she began, voice soft and amused with a hint of pride coming through it. “But I wasn’t sure if you were going to need me, so I stayed. ...even though I got squished in the process. He hugs very hard, doesn’t he?”

“It’s fine,” Bridget squeaked in a higher pitch than she meant. “Uh...s-sorry, it all happened so suddenly, and I didn’t mean for you to get caught in the middle.” Literally.

“Dear heart, there is no need to apologize. I’m proud of you.” Hope nuzzled the crook of her neck and a warmth flooded into her chest, gentle and kind and full of love. “You’ve made a lot of progress.”

“Part of me wants to think it was all just a dream,” she admitted as her face heated up, remembering his hands on her face and the intense gaze in his eyes. She slapped her hands to her cheeks, sighing whimsically and squeezing her eyes shut. “That actually happened. Blackwall...actually likes me—he  _ loves _ me. I can’t…”

She trailed off as a useless, silly smile spread across her face. A squeal was caught in her throat, but she remained somewhat sophisticated enough to force it back down where it belonged. Hope’s form vibrated with silent chuckles as she patted Bridget’s hand with a wing. “It was never a matter of  _ if _ , but rather a matter of  _ when _ .”

“And he said courting, Hope!” she blurted through her fingers, giddiness surging through her veins. “ _ Courting _ ! Ohhh, I feel like I’m in a harlequin romance novel!” 

Before Hope could respond, there was a knock on the door. The little dragon ducked back under the cloak as Bridget hesitantly rose from the mildewy mattress, making her way to the door and fumbling with the knob as her hands were suddenly jittery from the mess of emotions currently swirling around inside her. When she opened it, she breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Garahel sitting in the doorway, Sylvie perched on top of his head.

“A-ah, hey! Sorry, I probably should have reported back about finding some rooms to sleep in, but I was uh. Distracted,” she babbled, hoping her face wasn’t terribly flushed. Even though it shouldn’t matter that a griffon and a cat would see her post-positive-panic mode.

Garahel pushed through the doorway with some difficulty (it seemed he was still growing, and the keep’s passageways weren’t meant for something as large and awkward as a griffon), trotting into the room with a purposeful gait. Sylvie hopped off his head and scampered onto the bed, meowing disdainfully at the stale smell but otherwise kneading at multiple spots until she found one satisfactory enough for her to curl up. Grumbling, Hope crawled back out from her hiding spot and took her place on Bridget’s shoulder once again, tail swishing. 

“It’s not very big, so if you decide to stay in here tonight you’ll probably feel cramped,” Bridget explained apologetically, reaching up and patting Garahel’s shoulder. “Most of the rooms are like that, save the main barracks.”

She turned and glanced back at the bed with a frown, realizing just how small it was. In comparison to the one at the Storm Coast cabin, and even the one she had at Skyhold; if Garahel tried getting on it, it would probably break.

“Even sharing it with Blackwall wouldn’t be comfortable,” she muttered with a disappointed grunt.

“So you and the old man are official now, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Bridget sighed dreamily, heart fluttering as she recalled how wonderful it felt to finally experience something as genuine as—

And then she realized that it hadn’t been Hope who’d spoken, and the voice had been masculine, and coming from behind her.

Where Garahel sat on his haunches, golden eyes glittering cleverly and beak somehow twisted in a smirk.

“...Garahel?” Bridget stared at him. “Did you just fucking talk?”

She was certain it was just a fluke; a figment of her overactive mind. But then he let out a bark of pure unadulterated  _ laughter _ , ruffling his wings and winking deviously.

“ _ What the fuck _ .”

She gaped at him, and Hope did too, jaws dropping and eyes wide. Garahel nodded emphatically, puffing out his mane and snickering like a child who just filled their parent’s bed with cooked noodles.

“I’ve been able to since I was a week out of the shell. But no one ever asked. Everyone has been assuming that I couldn’t this whole time.” His voice was accented like Blackwall’s, but it wasn’t as heavy or deep. He sounded a bit like a teenage boy, complete with a thin air of that cocksure arrogance often seen in them. “You won’t believe what people say around you when they think you can’t repeat it!”

She continued to stare.   
And stare.

And stare some more.

And then finally the realization really sunk in, and the shock formed into quite the opposite.

“You little  _ shit _ , I love you so much!” Bridget cried as she threw her arms around his fluffy neck, practically cackling with an erratic delight. “I can’t wait to see Solas’ face when he realizes you could talk! All those hours he spent with you, completely useless! God, this day just keeps getting better and better. Wait,” she looked up from his fur for a frantic moment, gesturing to the bed. “Can Sylvie talk too?!”

Sylvie, hearing her name called, raised her head slightly and gave an inquisitive “Mrowl?”

“No, she’s just a normal cat.” He snorted and shook his massive head, rolling his eyes. 

“How,” Hope groaned, hiding her face in her clawed hands in humiliation. “How is it possible that you are capable of speech? I should have been able to sense it!”

Garahel shrugged nonchalantly. His far too human quirks made so much more sense now. “There was a spell protecting my egg, yes? Perhaps some magic just...leaked in.”

“Does Blackwall know?” Bridget asked, continuing to hang onto his soft and plush neck as she cuddled him unabashedly. Despite the speech bombshell, he wasn’t shying away from it and still enjoyed being pampered with physical affection, judging by the way he trilled in his throat and leaned hard into her.

“Of course not. I wasn’t even on planning telling you for sometime, but I couldn’t resist now that Dad and you have finally stopped dancing around one another.”

“Wait,  _ DAD _ ?!”

Garahel’s chest rumbled against her face as he let out another string of wicked laughter. “If I recall correctly, you were the one who first brought it up right after I hatched. And it’s true. He’s raised me; so have you... _ Mom _ .”

“Shhhhh!” She clapped her hands around his beak, face hot as she frantically glanced towards the door, expecting Blackwall to be hovering inside the room like an omnipresent bear. But it was just her and the three beasts of various backgrounds in the tiny room. “Calling me your mom and him your dad implies a certain level of intimacy that we most certainly haven’t gotten to yet,” she choked out as she pulled away from him.

“Ugh.” Garahel scrunched his feathery face in disgust. “I really don’t want to think about your sex life. Or lack thereof.”

“You are such a brat,” she muttered, punching him in the shoulder lightly as she tried in vain to get her face back to normal. She coughed into her hand, avoiding his gaze and shifting her eyes to a rather intriguing mildewed spot on the stone wall. “What did you mean when you said people say stuff around you? Anything about, uh...me?” The nonchalance she was hoping to adopt in her voice sounded more desperate than anything else, if she was being completely honest with herself.

“Some. Dorian keeps track of what you take out of the library and finds it interesting it’s all history that should be ‘common knowledge,’ according to him. He is rather impressed with how much you’ve read in such a short amount of time. I don’t see why, since it’s all so bloody boring,” Garahel grunted and Bridget glared at him, ready to go full history major on him. But he continued speaking and she couldn’t really find where to butt in. “Vivienne thinks you’re rather...intriguing. She didn’t elaborate. She also wants you to stop wearing the same clothes every day, because ‘every mage of the Inquisition should look impeccable.’ Her words, not mine.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my clothes!” Bridget exclaimed, glancing down at her outfit self-consciously. “They’re all I have. It’s not like I keep a personal tailor hidden under my bed. Besides, they’re comfy.” The medieval fantasy equivalent of sweatpants, really.

“Sera wants you to stop hiding in the stables,” Garahel continued, heedless of her fashion dismay. “Dad hung out with her a lot when you were asleep, until he started helping the commander. Now that you’re awake, she would rather you run around Skyhold throwing stink bombs at foppish twits with her. But she would never admit it to your face.”

“Oh.” Bridget blinked guiltily. 

“You already heard Varric’s spiel. Josephine likes you for the most part, because you’ve latched on to the Inquisitor so deeply. Bull thinks you keep to yourself too much and would pay to see you come out of your shell. Solas never spoke about you. Or anyone. Or himself. Just spells and magic. Leliana mostly yells at me for trying to eat her birds and is certain you’re hiding things. But after Haven, when the Inquisitor told everyone you really were just a new mage trying to figure things out, she’s a little more receptive to you. I believe that’s the gist of what I’ve overheard.”

He began to groom his wings, calming some invisible itch as Bridget let it all sink in. 

_ I really need to spend time with more people in the Inquisition. Shutting myself in for days on end with nothing but a griffon and a pile of books to keep me company is...not okay anymore. Sure, I crawled out of my hole that one time, but after we take care of everything in Crestwood, I should make it a priority to get to know everyone better. _

She’d thought about it over and over again. Not even Hope had really fully convinced her to just go for it. It was strange—that who was finally getting it through her head was a talking griffon of all things. 

Maybe it was simply because she was so tired of repeating the habits she so desperately wanted to leave behind.

“Thank you,” Bridget said softly, leaning over and planting her face in his shoulder as she hugged his neck tightly. He made a sound between a purr and a trill, nipping a strand of her hair affectionately.

“Would you like to know what Dad says when you’re not around?” he asked, an unmistakably mischievous grin in his tone.

“NO. Well, uh. Maybe. Kinda. Yeah?” She removed herself from his blessed bundle of fluff and feathers, jabbing an accusatory finger in front of his eyes. “No, wait, my final answer is no. Because as much as I do want to know, it would be cheating. Bad griffon. Baaaaad.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Hush. I’m a fucking delight.” Bridget stuck her tongue out and crossed her arms. 

“I’ll leave you alone now, and go find Dad and pester him to find me some fish,” Garahel announced loftily, holding his head high as he sauntered towards the door. “I mean, this keep is on a blasted lake. How hard should it be?”

“A lake currently glowing green with weird magic Fade crap,” she pointed out. “What if it makes you grow two heads or something?”   
  
“Then I’ll have twice the means to irritate you with.” 

Bridget groaned and shook her head in mock shame as Garahel squeezed through the door frame and pulled it shut with his back paws, leaving her as quickly as he had stormed in. Sylvie made no move to follow him, dozing contentedly on the bed, and Hope was silent in a mixture of aggravation and bewilderment. 

“I suppose I should let Vazrah know about these rooms,” she mumbled to herself, but then there was a thumping noise at the door. Frowning, she opened it a crack, seeing a pair of glittering golden eyes. 

“I forgot to mention,” Garahel’s tone was smug and deliberate, “but Cassandra has something of yours that you’ve been wanting back for some time. She reads it when no one is looking.”

Bridget was rushing past the griffon in the doorway before she even realized it, sprinting down the empty hallways of Caer Bronach and all the way to the main courtyard where Vazrah was preoccupied with a diagram of arcane sigils burned into the muddy ground.

The qunari looked up from the magic circle, blinking rain out of her eyes and gazing concernedly at Bridget panting and wheezing from the run. “Is everything alright? Did you find more bandits?”

“We have to return to Skyhold immediately. Cassandra stole my porn book.”

\---

Needless to say, Bridget’s plea to go back to Skyhold so she could confront Cassandra about her missing copy of  _ Swords and Shields  _ was met with much naysaying. Especially considering she refused to disclose why she believed it to be true on account of keeping Garahel’s ability to talk a secret.

The bandits had kept Caer Bronach well-stocked in both foodstuffs and equipment. It would be a couple of days until agents from Skyhold would be able to journey to Crestwood and begin the process of turning it into an Inquisition keep, but with all that they bandits had hoarded, the process should be an easy one.

It was getting dark by the time everyone regrouped and fumbled through the labyrinth of rooms that led to the defunct tavern containing the controls to the dam. Startling a young couple in the process (apparently a decrepit pub was the most romantic location in Crestwood), they found the controls and between the combined strength of Blackwall and Vazrah—

—Bridget quite enjoyed watching both of them inadvertently flex their muscles and heave at the circular contraption, pushing and tugging until the gears gave way—

—the dam’s waters were successfully diverted so that the formerly flooded remains of old Crestwood could be seen emerging from the muck. Evidently the mayor had claimed that darkspawn destroyed the controls during the Blight, so the moment the party found them rusty but otherwise in pristine working condition, Vazrah’s bullshit meter began to go off. 

“Something fishy is going on here,” she muttered with an incredulous scowl as she glowered at the dam’s controls. “And it’s not the lake.”

It was too dangerous to go traipsing around in undead-infested territory at night. The rain had finally come to a full stop and the storm clouds were all but gone from the night sky, revealing a glittering pattern of stars and a moon so bright it almost hurt to look at. There was still a heavy humidity hanging in the air, and her skin still felt damp and wet, but Bridget was glad that the rain seemed to be done for the time being. It really was a despondent and somber rain compared to the Storm Coast, even though certain  _ events  _ had turned it into the opposite for a heartbeat.

They returned to the keep for the night, descending on the leftover dinner supplies with fervor. Everyone was exhausted in their own way; either from the gloomy weather or fighting the undead. There were enough private rooms in the hallways Bridget had discovered for everyone to claim one for their own use. Varric and Hawke bid goodnight first, heading into different rooms, but it was obvious by the sly looks they gave one another that the separation wouldn’t be for long. Vazrah was next, giving Bridget a tired smile as she disappeared into the room she had chosen, and leaving her alone in the hall with Blackwall. There was a brief moment of uncertain silence as they looked at each other.

They both cleared their throats awkwardly, speaking up at the same time in halting tones.

“So, uh—”

“I should—”

Blackwall rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I apologize. Ladies first.”

“The beds are...really small,” Bridget explained quietly, gesturing at the door with vague motions. “Otherwise we could...you know…” She trailed off, face hot, and looked down at the floor.  _ Why am I getting all flustered? We already shared a bed once! Totally platonically too! It’s not like it’s a big deal, especially now that everything’s out in the open! _

For some reason, it was just more embarrassing knowing he cared about her the way she cared about him.

“Perfectly understandable. I wouldn’t want to accidentally push you out and onto the floor.” His mouth curled slightly, a small smirk just bordering on bold. “Though it will be rather lonesome and cold without you by my side.”

Her heart fluttered at the husky admission. “Y-yeah, same here,” she stammered, looking out from underneath her eyelashes and smiling shyly. “It sure has been a day, hasn’t it?”

“One of the best,” Blackwall answered so softly that she nearly melted into a heaping puddle on the floor before him. He leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead with the barest of touches, and pressed his mouth to her temple. His beard tickled against her skin and his warm breath fanned her face as he pulled away, voice rumbling deeply in the silence of the hall. “Good night, Bridget. Sleep well.”

“You too, Blackwall.” 

Her voice was nothing but an affectionate whisper, because that’s all she could manage. 

They withdrew into their respective rooms without another word and Bridget collapsed on the bed (now complete with actual blankets from the storerooms, courtesy of Hawke), startling a snoozing Sylvie. The cat gave a petulant meow and stood on all fours, stretching her lanky body and hopping off the bed, disappearing out the door and into the muggy night. 

Hope popped out from her pocket and crawled onto the bed, curling up in the same exact spot as Sylvie had with an air of triumph. Bridget kicked off her boots and pulled the sheets over her head, muffling her joyful shriek with the fabric. “I just love him so fucking  _ much _ ,” she squealed, putting a hand against her chest and feeling how hard her heart was thudding. She wasn’t tired anymore; not by any means, not when her veins were surging with a myriad of emotions. 

Hell, it seemed as good a time as any to practice the dragon magic again. What better way to burn off the adrenaline?

“Wings,” she decided out loud as she shoved the blankets to the foot of the bed. Hope looked up in surprise, letting out a startled noise when Bridget suddenly tossed her cloak aside and it landed on her tiny form. “I’m going to try the wings tonight.”

Hope said something, but the words were drowned in a sea of excitement. Bridget pulled her shirt over her head and it landed somewhere on the floor; she wasn’t entirely sure if the wings would rip her clothes, and she’d rather be safe than sorry. The underclothes came next until there was nothing covering her upper body, and she reached back to feel between her shoulder blades, already imagining how it would feel to have wings emerge from her skin.

But when she happened to glance down, she froze.

The curves of her stomach. The swell of her breasts. The way her flesh protruded out in unsightly contours. She knew where the scars were—her fingers reached down and traced the jagged lines, unbidden, where they lay buried between the folds of her skin. She felt the scissors in her hands again, cold and steely. And the pain, the biting and bitter pain that did nothing, even when she cut deeper and deeper until her skin was screaming at her to stop.

_ Cut it away,  _ a voice whispered menacingly, sickly sweet and scornful.  _ Cut it all away, you ugly bitch. _

A face flashed in her mind, accompanying the sneering voice; a pale young woman, blue eyes alight with mockery and disdain.

“NO!” she gasped and doubled over on the bed, shaking violently as bile rose in her throat. A sour taste coated her tongue, like rotting fruit. Phantom pain throbbed around her abdomen. Her eyes felt hot and prickly. Her skin felt tight. She couldn’t breathe.

She remembered that day at the apartment so vividly now. She remembered the blood dripping on the bathroom tile, and the shocked looks that turned to rage when she stumbled out with the scissors clutched in her shaking hands.

She remembered shoving her fingers down her throat that night. She remembered the way everything burned. She remembered the way they spoke to her, like she was something inhuman, like she was no better than a squashed bug on the bottom of their shoes.

_ You need to move out if you’re going to get that way again, because we don’t have the time to deal with your shit right now. _

Or ever. Because really, had they  _ ever  _ had the time to deal with her, no matter how big or how small those relapses had been?

“Bridget? Bridget, look at me.”

Hope’s voice was sharp like the scissor blades. 

No, it wasn’t.

It was sharp, but like a bolt of lightning when it strikes the ground.

Bridget looked up with eyes full of tears. Hope was in front of her face, slender form wavering like a watery ghost. “That’s not me anymore,” she choked out, arms wrapping around her bare chest and fingernails digging slightly into the meat of her shoulders. “It’s not me!”

Because it wasn’t. The Bridget who couldn’t stand to look at mirrors was gone. The Bridget who never ate much when around others was gone. The Bridget who looked at other girls and cried herself to sleep every night because she wasn’t like them was gone. 

They were gone. They’d died when she jumped. 

The Bridget she was now was proud of her body, and she wasn’t going to let those demons come back to haunt her ever again.

“It’s not  _ me _ ,” she snarled in a voice that didn’t quite belong to her as a surge of electricity washed over her body. The rancid taste of rot gave way to the taste of ozone and she felt thunder crash into her bones, racing through her muscles and tendons and converging at the small of her back. Pain, fierce and cutting, hummed in her mind for the briefest of moments. There was the sound of something tearing, like paper, and her back itched like dozens of ants crawling all over. Something powerful  _ pushed  _ from deep inside her, making her back arch from the sheer force of it.

The wings sprung from either side of her spine and spread wide. She let out a hiss as all the tension simply melted away, sliding her hands across her shoulders and fingering the leathery ends. It was odd; feeling sensation in appendages that shouldn’t be there. 

They were batlike and reptilian at the same time, the scales lining the top a deep indigo and small barbed hooks at the very end. She fluttered them once, twice, glancing back to see how the blood vessels shifted with the movement. It was like working a muscle that had simply been hidden away for some time. 

“ _ This _ is me,” Bridget said in a drained voice, fingers ghosting along the wings in awe. They were somewhat awkward hanging from her back, heavy like a rucksack full of stone. But they were  _ hers.  _ The wingspan was easily four feet across and when she closed her eyes and focused, she just  _ knew _ she would be able to fly without so much as a crash course.

_ This is who I’m meant to be. _

But a surge of exhaustion gripped her the moment the thought crossed her mind. Bridget groaned and pitched forward, face first into the mattress, wings folded neatly against her bare back. 

“Crap,” she mumbled as her vision became blurry and vertigo gripped her in its wicked clutches. 

“The wings used too much magic! You should have done something smaller,” she heard Hope admonish from somewhere far away, not unkindly. Just pure worry and a dash of sadness. 

_ I imagine I’ll get a firm lecture in the morning. _

And then Bridget drifted off as the transformation took its toll, vaguely aware of a small scaly body tucking itself against her face and a wave of calm surrounding her. 

She dreamt of the storm.

It was like when she accidentally inhaled the Griffon Dust—the magic appeared to her as a titanous humanoid shape in the clouds. Lightning crackled through its black and roiling body. Thunder rumbled with each movement, swift as the winds of a typhoon. Hands gathered around her, far too large to even be comprehended by a human mind, and swept her up in a comforting embrace. Off in the distance, a single white star gleamed as it watched over her.

Bridget felt safe. Like when Blackwall held her. Electricity fizzled against her skin. Something whispered in her ear. She didn’t hear the words as much as she felt them vibrating in her soul. 

An apology. For not giving her the strength she needed with the dragon magic.

_ No,  _ she whispered in her mind as she curled into the bed of storm clouds cradling her.  _ This has to be on me, and me alone. You’ve done so much for me already. I have to learn—I  _ want  _ to learn, even if I mess up along the way. _

She could still taste the storm’s guilt, could still feel it cloying in the back of her throat, but it lessened at her insistence. Bridget wondered if all mages had this with their magic. If it spoke to them as a parent does to a child. If it lapped at their fingertips as an eager hound does to its master before the hunt. Such a ridiculous dichotomy for something so ancient and primal and just  _ there _ , but it made sense. Somehow.

Nothing about magic truly made sense, but Bridget was okay with that. It didn’t have to make sense. Not right now. It was enough that it was there for her, patient and loving and ready to be called upon at a moment’s notice.

She awoke with a start to thunderous banging on the door. She almost thought it was the storm, save for Vazrah’s voice cheerfully booming on the other side.

“Rise and shine, Princess! We’ve got a Rift to seal and a Warden to find.”

Bridget groaned and struggled to push herself up in a sitting position, groggy and sluggish in her movements. Her insides felt like a pot of boiling water but goosebumps rose across the skin of her arms and she shivered, teeth chattering obnoxiously. Hair stuck to her forehead in messy clumps from how sweaty her skin was. 

Hope cleared her throat from where she lay on the bed, amethyst eyes unreadable as she scanned Bridget’s face.

“You’re sick,” she said in a semi-accusatory tone. “You pushed too hard with the magic last night.” But then her voice softened and she placed a clawed paw on Bridget’s thigh. “Are you alright?”

She didn’t have to explain what she meant. Bridget nodded, rubbing at her eyes. “Momentary relapse. It won’t—it won’t happen again.”

A half-empty promise, since it had come so swiftly and without warning. But she wouldn’t let infect her again if she could help it. Things in Thedas wouldn’t be like they were back home. She was done with those thoughts. Those memories were rotten.

Something brushed against her back. Her torso remained bare, having passed out before even pulling the blanket onto her body. Bridget glanced over her shoulder and felt herself grow pale at the sight of the iridescent and indigo wings. “They’re still here?!” she hissed in a panic, staring at Hope helplessly as Vazrah knocked on the door again.

“Bridget, I know you’re awake, because I can hear you moving. Don’t make me come in there and drag you out of bed. You know I will!”

“J-just a minute!” Bridget called out, voice cracking. She willed the wings away, trying to force them to disappear back into her skin. But they stubbornly remained, unfurling on their own, and Bridget cursed under her breath as she blindly groped backwards and tried in vain to push them down. “Why won’t they go away?” she moaned desperately, inwardly fistpumping in success when they finally folded against her back again in a neat layer of scale and membrane.

“I’m not sure,” Hope admitted, sounding more perplexed than worried. “Perhaps it’s to do with your being sick? Which in turn is because of the excess energy you used to bring them out? I’m terribly sorry,” she added, her own wings sagging with guilt. “I can’t seem to focus on them, and help you dispel them.”

“Hawke’s a spirit healer. Maybe she…” Bridget trailed off uselessly and grabbed the blanket, wrapping it around her upper body and tucking the wings beneath the fabric. “Vazrah,” she called out tentatively, another round of chills attacking her in that moment and making her body convulse slightly. “C-can you get Hawke? I’m...not feeling that great.”

There was no answer for a brief moment. Then: 

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

A couple minutes later the door creaked open and Bridget looked up from her miserable cocoon (she added another blanket while waiting), pulling the sheets closer and shivering with dread and fever chills. Hope was hidden in the confines of the bundled up cloak on the bed, because there wasn’t enough time to let Hawke unpack the idea of a semi-omnipresent pocket dragon. “Close the door behind you,” Bridget croaked out warily and Hawke did without question, striding over to the bed and putting her hand on her forehead.

“Andraste’s tits, that’s some fever!” she remarked with narrowed eyes; the look of a physician whose patient was a very poor listener. “Let me guess: you depleted your magic on a big spell last night.”

As an answer, Bridget scooted around on the bed so that her back was facing both Hawke and Vazrah, and let the blankets drop.

The silence from both women was damning.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Vazrah’s hand, big and warm and gentle, rested on her shoulder, mindful to not bump into a massive dragon wing. “Shapeshifting can be dangerous if you’re not used to it. You were out for three weeks after Haven because of it...granted, that was a full dragon then, and this is just a pair of wings. But still!”

“Wait,” Bridget could hear the gaping mouth in Hawke’s stunned tone. “She shapeshifted into a fucking  _ dragon _ to escape Haven?! Shit!” The astonishment shifted into a gentle reproach as Bridget glanced behind her briefly, avoiding the two sets of probing eyes. “Shapeshifting is a difficult form of magic that can wreak havoc with your body if you’re not careful. There’s reasons why it’s banned. Only apostates study it.”

“The claws were easy,” Bridget explained sullenly, hugging the blanket to her front. “But these...don’t want to go away, and now I feel like shit, and I’m...sorry.”

“Hush. Don’t apologize.” Hawke patted her shoulder. “We’ll get this sorted out. Inquisitor, do you want to join me, or sit this one out?”   


“I need the practice. Besides, what harm could another pair of hands do?” Vazrah answered.

Bridget blinked in confusion. “I thought Hawke was the spirit healer. Are you going to share your magic with her or something?”

“Not quite.” There was a smile in Vazrah’s  amused voice. “I’m learning spirit healing from Hawke. Have been since she showed up at Skyhold. I have a small affinity for it, it would seem.”

“Affinity? Maker, you’re a natural! Anders would be thrilled to know the Inquisitor can use healing magic.” Hawke’s voice faltered ever so slightly, her usual vigor draining into something else. “...I wish he could be here. It would be just the sort of thing he’d get himself into—the mage rebellion was partially his doing, after all.”

“That’s...your friend from Kirkwall, right?” Bridget wracked her brain to recall what she had read in  _ Tale of the Champion _ , and the rumors she’d heard swirling around Haven and Skyhold occasionally. “The former Grey Warden, the one who, uh...blew up a chantry?”

She winced immediately after the words left her mouth. She hadn’t meant to be so blasé about that incident.

“Aye. That’d be Anders.” Hawke let out a small laugh, somehow managing to be sad and delighted at the same time. “Now hold still, so the Inquisitor and I can try and sort this mess out for ye.”

“What was he like?” Bridget asked carefully, slowly, stiffening when she felt Hawke’s smooth hands and Vazrah’s calloused ones pressed gently against her wings, one pair of hands for each. It wasn’t that she was uncomfortable with them touching her, but rather...it felt so strange to have sensation in a place that usually didn’t exist, and to feel pressure and touch on something that she had just conjured within the last twelve hours.

“Complicated,” Hawke answered simply. Something warm spread from her and Vazrah’s fingertips, permeating deep into her wings and flowing through the veins to the very tips. Bridget let out a sigh, shoulders relaxing; it was similar to Hope’s calming aura. “He isn’t a monster, or a madman, not like the stories make him out to be. He saw injustice in the world, and he worked hard to make things right. Yes, he made mistakes, but don’t we all? He was trying to change things. Change doesn’t come easily.”

The warmth was beginning to envelope her whole body, not just the wings. It settled into her skin, going deep into every muscle and tendon and bone, and shifted into a blessed coolness when it stretched its healing fingers towards her face. The cumbersome weight of the wings began to diminish slowly, and she felt her spine tingle and itch. 

“We didn’t always agree on things.” Hawke’s accented voice was as soothing as a lullaby. The cadence of it, the glow of the healing magic, the tenderness of her hands rubbing the diminishing scales; it was making Bridget’s eyes lull shut, and her head fall to the side. “But he is still one of my closest friends, and I’m a better person for having known him. It was Anders who taught me about medicine, and then helped me connect with spirits in the Fade who want to heal us eejit mortals.”

She heaved a heavy sigh, like the weight of the world was slowly falling off her shoulders. “He’s in hiding right now, no doubt still pouring his heart into helping others. I want him with me, because he  _ understands  _ me better than I do myself, and I feel so bloody selfish for wanting it. He’s safer being as far away from the Inquisition as possible.”

The wings withered away. 

Bridget fell backwards, supported by the combined efforts of Hawke and Vazrah. Her mind felt fuzzy, and her body heavy as a ton of bricks. But her insides were no longer boiling, and she’d stopped shivering violently. She was vaguely aware of two sets of hands settling her down on the bed, and of the blankets being pulled comfortingly around her. 

“We’ll take care of the Rift. You just rest up here.” Vazrah’s voice was soft and quiet in her ears, accompanied by the sensation of someone stroking her hair. “Don’t do anything stupid while we’re gone.”

And then everything was peacefully silent.

Bridget drifted in and out. It was kind of like being on morphine. Not that she had any experience with morphine, but she imagined this was what it was like. Unless you counted Griffon Dust. Which she didn’t.

The combined spells of Hawke and Vazrah floated around her body, occasionally whispering incomprehensibly in her mind. She had a nagging feeling that she should have known what they were saying, but it was just pure gibberish in her dazed condition.  _ Oh shit,  _ she sluggishly thought when phantom hands ran along her back, rubbing and massaging her spine and soothing the tension the wings had left.  _ Spirit healing. They literally called spirits from the Fade to help me. How did I not put two and two together? _

The familiar sweet scent and tranquil aura of Hope joined in at some point. Tiny claws kneaded her shoulders, and relief melted into the marrow of her soul. “We will do better next time,” Hope promised. A tired, reassured smile grew on Bridget’s lips, knowing there would be a next time despite the initially reckless first attempt.

How much time passed until the spirits faded away and took the healing spells with them, Bridget wasn’t sure. But eventually, her eyes fluttered open and she came to, lucid and as refreshed as if she’d just returned from a month-long spa retreat. She sat up quickly, blankets falling from her body, and was surprised to see herself fully dressed.

“The spirits did that before they left,” Hope explained, appearing on her shoulder like a ghost. “I returned to the Fade to thank them, even though they answered the spell’s call willingly. How are you feeling?”

“Fantastic,” Bridget answered honestly, stretching her arms above her head and blinking rapidly. Her mind was fresh and clear, her body light, and if she wanted to, she could probably run a marathon without passing out from exhaustion. “How long was I out?”

“Just a couple of hours. It’s barely noon. They haven’t come back yet, however.”

Bridget tossed the blankets off and strode over to the door, opening it and yelping in surprise when the massive bulk of Garahel sprawled out on the floor greeted her. He lifted his head with a lazy rhythm, ears perked curiously, and when he saw her standing in the doorway he scrambled to his feet.

“Finally! I was going absolutely mad with boredom,” he cried out, butting her shoulder with his head affectionately. “The blasted Rift is located in some underground cave, so Dad sent me back here. Not much a griffon can do in a place like that.” He paused, sniffing at her for a moment. “The Inquisitor said you weren’t feeling well and that she and Hawke performed some sort of healing magic on you.”

“Y-yeah, I woke up sick, but they made me better,” Bridget stammered, hoping desperately that they didn’t tell Blackwall about the whole ‘making dragon wings and passing out due to magic depletion again’ debacle. 

“You smell good. Healthy good, I mean. Anyway.” Garahel tossed his head and snorted impatiently. “On my way back, I found something. I think we should scout it out, just the two of us.”

She frowned. “What did you find?”

“Red Templars.” Garahel’s eyes glittered fiercely and his claws scraped against the cobblestone floor as he began to saunter down the hall.

Bridget took off after him without a second thought.

The sun was shining when they got into the courtyard, with no trace of dark clouds in the beautiful blue sky and instead giant poofy white ones that looked like sheep. The air was crisp and clean, and a subtle breeze blew against her face. It was like entering a totally different country; the bleak and gloomy Crestwood of when she had first arrived was gone. 

“Vazrah  _ did  _ say not to do anything stupid,” Bridget pointed out as she clamored onto Garahel’s back, ignoring the nagging voice in her mind that screamed at her to just use her own wings. “So we’ll just scout it out and then come back immediately. I don’t want to start a fight, okay? Plus, they might come back when we’re gone, and I don’t want everyone panicking.”

“Of course not. Just a quick look.” Garahel agreed amiably enough, though Bridget couldn’t help but feel suspicious at how easily he conceded. 

When she was all settled, the griffon took to the skies. It was still as thrilling as it was the first time, despite knowing she could do it herself. And she would, eventually, but Bridget wasn’t going to allow her impulsiveness get the better of her again. Crestwood was gorgeous from up high, especially considering her view wasn’t obstructed by torrential rainfall. 

The lake shone below them, dark waters glittering in the sunlight. There was no trace of the ghastly green everyone knew to associate with Rifts; either Vazrah had already succeeded in sealing it, or it was just simply impossible to tell in good weather. The village was just a cluster of small dots, and the fields large brown patches that stretched on forever. In stark contrast to the rolling plains of the farm fields were areas of rocky bluffs to the south of them. They were small mountains in their own right, and in the distance Bridget could make out a strange reddish hue every now and then.

Garahel flew in that direction. The closer they got, the more crimson Bridget could see, and her skin prickled with the sense that something was not right. 

“Red lyrium,” Hope breathed from her shoulder, claws digging into the fabric of her shirt as she shuddered involuntarily. Images of the dragon Corypheus had corrupted with the malevolent stuff flashed in Bridget’s mind through her link with Hope. With everything that had been happening, neither of them had thought about the poor creature, nor had they really looked into ways to return her to her original state of being.

_ When we get back to Skyhold, we will,  _ Bridget sent to Hope inwardly, reaching up and stroking her scaly cheek.

**_The corruption has no doubt gotten worse since we saw her at Haven. We need to find her again, soon, before she becomes nothing but an empty shell of evil and hate._ **

_ Maybe Hawke and Vazrah can teach me that spirit healing stuff, and that’s what we can use. Or they can do it themselves!  _

Garahel landed before they could continue the conversation. Huge deposits of red lyrium stuck out of the muddy ground, emanating sickly heat. Smaller clusters dotted the rocks along the cliffs and when Bridget looked at it at just the right angle, the sunlight made them look almost pretty. She could feel that nauseating sense of bloodlust and rage she recalled from when Haven had been attacked by the Red Templars and Corypheus. It was close.

A statue, almost completely devoured by the red lyrium, pointed upwards at the sky. Too much of it was hidden for Bridget to tell what it was supposed to be, but what little she could see appeared to be elven in origin. Or perhaps Avvar? She hadn’t quite pinpointed all the cultural differences of Thedas’s various peoples just yet, much to her dismay. 

There was a wooden sign hanging from the statue’s hands, worn away by years of wind and rain. Something almost illegible was carved into the half-rotted wood, and she had to peer closely in order to get a sense of what it said. Eventually, after a minute of staring, she could read the words  _ Glenmorgan Mine _ . 

“Well, that explains why there’s red lyrium. Maybe.” She turned to Garahel, who was backing away from as much of the red lyrium as possible. “Stay here. You’re kinda hard to sneak around with, since you’re not a little baby griffon anymore.”

“Yes. Excellent idea.” His feathers ruffled and he glanced rapidly all around them as a shudder ran through his body. “I can feel more of this vile stuff further on in. Be careful, will you? Shout if you need me.”

“Will do, buckaroo.” Bridget saluted him, pulling Mjölnir out and grasping the handle so tightly her knuckles went white.

It was eerily silent as she crept up the hill. All life seemed to avoid the mine; she didn’t blame them, considering the copious amounts of red lyrium she had to creep around. The further she got, the more red lyrium there was, and the stronger the murderous sensation of loathing was on her skin. She repressed the urge to turn tail and run, fighting against all her instincts to get the fuck out of there. If Red Templars were in Crestwood, then it may mean more information about Corypheus, and the Inquisition would certainly be eager for anything they could get their hands on.

“Just get in and get out,” Bridget said to herself in a strained voice, swallowing thickly. She was at the top of the hill now, and nestled against the cliff wall was a jumble of canvas tents and tables with strange tools littered on their surfaces. The mouth of a cavern was to the right of her, its entrance guarded by towers of red lyrium, and abandoned wooden carts full of lumpy bits of metal lay toppled on their sides. She knelt behind a bush, crouching as far as she could go while still being able to peek through the leaves, scanning the seemingly empty area. 

“Just see if there really are Red Templars, and that’s all. No going all ‘god of thunder’ on them and losing your cool. Just stay calm, and—”

“What’s a little girl like you doing all alone in a place like this?” A voice, not quite human, growled from behind her, and Bridget was quite proud of how she did not scream when she spun around to see a massive figure in red crystalline armor hulking over her.

“Oh, son of a  _ bitch _ .” 

Somehow, she dodged the giant greatsword swinging down at her just in time. The air hummed where the blade sliced, and the Red Templar (their entire face was covered by a grotesquely disfigured helmet, and it was impossible to tell what they’d been like before the corruption of the red lyrium) shouted wordlessly as she scampered away. The storm urged her to call its wrath down, lightning licking at her fingertips, but Bridget kept it at bay as she rushed into the empty encampment, her path back to Garahel blocked by the monstrous behemoth behind her.

Alerted by their companion’s shout, three more Red Templars emerged from the darkness of the cave, all in various shapes and sizes. What unified them was the crimson crystals protruding from their blackened flesh and armor, and the way the air tasted like fire as they unsheathed their swords. 

_ I am so fucked. _

Even with Garahel, the odds would be against her, because she wasn’t going to be an idiot and throw herself in a fight without a care. She owed it to Blackwall. And everyone else.

She wished she knew what the red lyrium had done to the normal templar abilities. But with such a level of uncertainty, Bridget thought it would be safer to wave a white flag rather than get herself in an even bigger mess.

“Hope, I need you to find Vazrah, and everyone, and let them know about this,” Bridget murmured to the dragon on her shoulder as she slowly put her staff on the ground and raised her hands up in surrender. “Bring Garahel with you.”

“If anything happens, I’ll return to you immediately,” Hope replied just as quietly, before blinking out of existence. 

“I don’t want any trouble,” Bridget explained in as calm a voice she could manage, backing away slowly with her hands still raised as the four Red Templars advanced on her. “If you just let me walk away, we can forget any of this even happened, and I won’t say a word.”

“Oh, no.” The one who had originally snuck up behind her cackled as they hauled their greatsword up, and it was a revolting sound. “A mage, all by her lonesome? You aren’t going  _ anywhere _ .”

A chorus of wicked laughter erupted from all four of them, and something in the air snapped. The bloodlust and the corruption swarmed out from their bodies, and Bridget couldn’t breathe. The miasma was suffocating. Panic gripped her heart as she felt herself stumble, eyes wide. All she saw was red. Red lyrium. Red Templars. 

A blade was rushing at her, and time was all but stopped, and all she could do was stand frozen in terror.

And then there was a dark-colored shape bounding into the clearing, colliding into the Templar that was swinging their greatsword at her, and a pair of hands jerked her back just before it crashed into the ground where she’d been. 

Bridget snapped back to attention. The paralyzing fear leached out of her and she whipped her head behind her. A man was grinning back at her; one whose face was somehow familiar. When she realized why she recognized him, her mouth gaped open in utter shock.

“Holy shit, you’re King Alistair!”   
  


He was in a blue and silver armored uniform, with a sword strapped to his side.  _ The Grey Warden regalia,  _ she thought as she gawked at him. His grin was far more infectious than the tersely polite smile she remembered from Redcliffe, which seemed like years ago. And his ears—the tips were pointed ever so slightly, which she was fairly certain had not been the case the first time she met him. 

“That I am! And you seem to be in trouble. But don’t worry, we’ve got this under control.” The king—no, he wasn’t a king right now, he was a  _ Warden _ —gestured back to the Red Templars. Bridget followed his fingers to see a massive wolf, easily three times the size of a normal one, with fur a motley of brown and black. It was snarling savagely, pouncing on the Red Templars with adept movements. She felt magic rising from its body; a support spell like the one Hawke had woven, enhancing the wolf’s strength. 

Alistair patted Bridget on the shoulder before rushing forward into the foray, sword in hand. Part of her urged her to join in, to take Mjölnir and summon the storm. But the other part was content just to watch the wolf and the Warden fight like they were born to do it, and that was the part she listened to, standing back a few feet. 

The battle went by in the blink of an eye. The wolf seemed to focus on knocking the weapons from the Templars’ hands, and Alistair used the momentum to thrust his blade at where the red lyrium armor left gaps in its dilapidated state. The two worked in tandem, the wolf biting down with its powerful jaws and Alistair dancing with his sword. Red splattered everywhere; red blood, and red lyrium, and red bits of armor. 

And then it was done. The bodies of the four Red Templars lay on the ground, limbs torn and helmets broken to reveal faces so torn up by the lyrium it was impossible to see who they once had been. The wolf lingered over the corpse of the biggest one, shaking its massive head like it was trying to rid itself of a swarm of flies, and made a strangled coughing noise as spittle and blood left its jowls.

Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but then the wolf changed. Its body shifted as it rose to its hindlegs, becoming slender and smaller and human-like. Bones cracked. The wolf groaned, as if in pain. The brindled fur gave way to dark skin and hair, and armor just like Alistair’s. 

An elf took the place of the wolf, with deep brown eyes that seemed to look right through her. His face was handsome, with a magnificent tattoo reminiscent of sprawling tree roots inked in emerald green spanning the entirety of his skin, running down his neck and most likely continuing downward. His hair was long and straight, the left half of it in a sort of buzzcut, and the right tied in a loose braid that hung past his shoulders. His nose was aquiline and his cheekbones were high, and he smiled warmly at Bridget as she slowly approached with halting steps.

“Hello there. Please, do forgive us if we startled you. We heard a commotion and came to investigate.” The elven Warden spoke with a soft tone, and an accent she couldn’t place. 

“We’ve been keeping an eye on these Red Templar bastards ever since they showed their ugly mugs at Haven,” Alistair added, inspecting the weapons with a scrutinizing frown. “It’s been an absolute joy, I tell you, sticking swords into them. Much more entertaining than signing letters and reading dull paperwork.”

“B-but you’re the king,” Bridget stammered. She knew she was new to Thedas, but she was fairly certain the king of Ferelden shouldn’t be traipsing along  in undead-infested areas while he had a kingdom to rule. Politics and all that. 

“Yes, I do believe we established that!” He hoisted himself to his feet and held out his hand towards her, beaming that contagious smile of his. “I suppose introductions are in order, nonetheless. Alistair Theirin, lamentable king of Ferelden, sometimes Warden when duty calls, and lover of fine cheeses. You are?”

Bridget found herself reaching for his hand, his grip tight and warm as he shook it enthusiastically. “Uh. My name’s Bridget,” she mumbled clumsily, because she was  _ shaking hands with a fucking king  _ and he was acting like it was nothing. “We kinda already met before? I-in Redcliffe, during the mess with Alexius. I was with the Inquisition.”

“Oh, Maker, you’re right! No wonder why you seemed familiar! I’m so sorry, I never caught your name then. It was so chaotic, what with all the illegal arcane activities and signing arrest warrants.” Alistair slapped his forehead as he nodded in recognition, flushing remorsefully. “And, er, apologies if I came across as... _ overly  _ regal during that mess. Had to keep up with appearances for diplomatic sake. I’m usually quite pleasant to be around!”

She believed it. She was already sharing in his grin, unable to keep it from her face. The man was like a literal ray of sunshine. 

“Yes, you are, Alistair,” the elf laughed, a rich and lovely sound. He gave Bridget a slight bow of the head. “ _Andaran atish’an_. I am a Grey Warden as well, though you have already probably gathered that from the armor. I’m glad we got to you in time; there is no telling what those monsters would have done to you, being a mage.”

He paused, giving her that piercing look again, like he was staring directly into her soul. The eyes of a wolf, watching another predator from the safety of the shadows.

“My name is Soren Mahariel. You may know me more commonly as the Hero of Ferelden.”


	16. what's in a name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok ok so. uh. this...took a really long time. to be honest, i wasn't planning on so much as looking at the document for a few months. some stuff happened in a discord server and tumblr, where i was basically...getting hate for not liking cullen, the abuse his character represents, killing him off, and being a blackwall fan? it was really...jarring. got called some fun slurs and was sent death threats basically. 
> 
> i was going to leave this, possibly for good, because of how much the situation upset me. how stupid i felt for wanting to do something just for myself, and letting the opinions of others get to me. but i got some really kind comments and support from a few people, and realized that would be letting the shitty people win, and hacked at this for a few days. thanks, y'all. you know who you are.
> 
> as for this...
> 
> it's long. really long. and impossibly dialogue heavy. i didn't mean for it to end up like that, but i just kept writing, and this is what came out. i'm starting to really enter the realm of saying "fuck canon" and putting my own spin on the plot of inquisition, and the previous games, and a lot is happening. hopefully it makes sense?

It wasn’t difficult to presume the Inquisitor and Hawke were hiding something from him. Blackwall knew better than anyone the signs—the higher-than-usual pitch in their voices, the way they avoided meeting his eyes, how all they had to say of Bridget was that she wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be coming along to seal the Rift. And when he had expressed his desire to see how she was doing before the group left Caer Bronach, both women had deemed it too risky for her recovery, on account of the spell the two had cast to heal her. Assuring emphatically that Bridget would be fine with some rest, the Inquisitor and Hawke told Blackwall not to worry about her, and it made him worry all the more.

“You look you’re about ready to stick your sword in something,” Varric commented airily as they exited Caer Bronach’s main gate. Vazrah and Hawke were a few feet ahead, talking animatedly with one another, and quite clearly doing their damnedest to avoid him.

He didn’t answer, staring pointedly at the two women in front of them.

“She’ll be fine,” Varric added in a much softer tone. “Hawke is a damn fine healer. She learned from one of the best. Bonfire isn’t half bad, either.”

This time Blackwall gave an indifferent grunt but otherwise remained silent, lost in his thoughts.

Was it his fault that she’d gotten sick? That he had blurted out his feelings in the cold and wet rain, rather than somewhere warm and dry and at least  _ somewhat  _ appropriate for the situation? 

Though it hadn’t been the first time. Memories of that day at the Storm Coast welled up inside of him; when she had found the Warden-Constable’s badge among the mud and bones, and he had almost told her that he was a lie. 

_ Why does everything meaningful between us happen in the rain? _

He would have to tell her the truth when they returned to Skyhold. Bridget deserved to know everything, and he deserved to have her despise him for keeping it from her for so long. It wouldn’t be right for him to continue the charade of being Warden Blackwall if he were to love her—not that the lie had been right in the first place, but it had been necessary. 

And if she still loved him after Blackwall disappeared and the real him took his place, then he deserved her even less, because a man as loathsome as he was should never be allowed an ounce of happiness.

Though he couldn’t deny the tiny fraction of boyish pride that he had felt when he had kissed her. Seeing her cheeks flush, having her beg him to kiss her again, and the way Bridget had practically clung to him...it was almost enough to battle the desire to keep the charade going. Almost.

“You’re really milking that grizzled and brooding look, you know,” Varric piped up again, jolting Blackwall from the cynical maelstrom brewing deep inside him. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask...do you prefer being described as ‘grizzled’ or ‘masculine’? For my next story, of course.”

“Do I really have a choice?” 

“Right. Going with grizzled, then.”

Blackwall winced when he realized how harsh his words had been. He didn’t mean to take his frustrations out on the dwarf; he just wasn’t in the mood for joviality or playful banter. Unless they were with Bridget, which they weren’t, because she was stuck inside Caer Bronach sick from his own ineptitude. 

He sighed, massaging his temple as he felt the heavy throbs of a headache creep its way upwards. He never should have responded to her feelings. It was going to hurt her more in the long run than if he had denied her.

But how could he have done so, in the heat of the moment, when she had been staring at him with a storm in her eyes? When she had bared part of her soul, handed it to him with shaking fingers, despite all the signs that she was so utterly terrified of rejection? It would have been a disservice to her strength and spirit. Just as it was a disservice to already be so certain that she would resent him for pretending to be something he was not, when time and time again Bridget made it abundantly clear that she cared for him. Whether it was romantically or not, Blackwall knew she would not walk away. And he, the fool that he was, would gladly embrace whatever she was willing to give him, because he was tired of running away.

And as much the revelation pained him, as much as it sent a cold terror up and down his spine, he would not dishonor her by loving her with a false name.

_ If there is one thing I can do right in this world,  _ Blackwall thought as he raised his head to glance at the warm sun and cloudless blue sky,  _ let it be how I love her.  _

 

\---

Closing the Rift and taking care of the undead in Old Crestwood was easy enough, especially when all Blackwall wanted to do was cut through them like butter to get back to see how Bridget was doing. 

The former village smelled like stagnant water and dead fish. Bloated, rotting bodies lay among dilapidated houses and lake grass. Skeletons stripped completely of flesh and turned brown and porous from years of being underwater were strewn under boulders, jaws gaping in permanent screams of suffering. Wisps and spirits drifted in and out of view, translucent in the mid-morning sun. 

It was rather peaceful, regardless of the dozens of villagers who had drowned so long ago, and the undead that were rising in their place.

Finding the entrance to the flooded cave proved simple, as was making their way down the creaking stairs. The four navigated the maze of damp caverns and avoided precarious drop offs into darkness, flanking groups of undead and minor demons that skulked about in the dank shadows. At one point Hawke stumbled into an hollowed-out portion of the wall in an attempt to avoid a rage demon’s fire, finding heaps of yet more bodies and the tell tale signs that someone had been living down in the caves when everything had flooded.

Blackwall felt sorry for the poor bastards as they left the piles behind, but there wasn’t much they could do other than Vazrah casting a spell to burn the bodies, preventing further undead. The Ferelden of a decade past was a dark and tumultuous time; no doubt they had been refugees from the Blight, with nowhere else to go.

The sparse, somber caverns eventually gave way to the colorful mosaics and impressive architecture of a dwarven ruin when they reached the bottom. A lonely sort of pang entered Blackwall’s heart as they passed carvings of ancient paragons and rooms no doubt laden with documents and artifacts from an age far gone. He would have to bring Bridget back down when she was feeling better; he could see the gleam in her eyes and hear her delighted laugh in his mind as she lost herself in the relics of the past.

The image was short-lived upon at last reaching the chamber containing the Rift, however. It was bigger than the others he had seen, but nothing like the size of the one that had torn the Temple of Sacred Ashes apart. With Vazrah, Hawke, Varric, and him working in tandem, the waves of demons that poured from the green scar in the air were quickly subdued. 

Blackwall forgot himself in the battle, becoming nothing but blade and steel, dragging his sword through sinew and bone that shuddered and dissipated into nothing the moment the demons died. He forgot about the fear constantly coiled within his heart, poised and ready to strike like a serpent the moment he let his thoughts drift to the future once again. It was just him and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, hot and burning like Vazrah’s magic. When he finally returned to his senses, splattered with gore and demon ichor, he unclenched his hand from the hilt of his sword and took a deep breath, centering himself.

Afterwards, the Inquisitor sealed the Rift up with her glowing hand—

—he pretended not to notice the way she winced and bit down on her lip when the deed was done, because it wasn’t his place to pry—

—the group made their way back through the twists and tunnels, ducking beneath stalactites and trying not to trip over glossy stone surfaces wet with ten years’ worth of lake. By the time they made their way back out into the world outside, it was early afternoon, and a pleasant breeze drifted across the surface of the lake. All four were damp, smelled like dead fish and rotting bodies, and covered in unmentionable bits of carnage, but nonetheless victorious.

The satisfaction of a job well done only lasted for a few moments.

A familiar squawking cry rang through the air and from the horizon, Garahel came soaring down like a stone from a catapult. He landed in front of Blackwall, golden eyes so wide he could almost see the whites of them, and his paws dug into the wet sand as he shook his massive head with an almost human-like impatience. The shimmering and pristine form of Hope emerged from between Garahel’s wings, fluttering towards Blackwall and keeping herself aloft in the air with the grace of a butterfly.

“Bridget’s in trouble,” she said in her clear and bell-like voice, sapphire eyes drawn in a worried expression. “Red Templars.”

A million questions burned in his mind. But none of them mattered. 

He was swinging himself up onto Garahel’s back before he even realized he had moved, muscles taut and teeth grit.

“Wait, what is that?! Is that a bloody dragon?! Why is it so small and adorable?! Why is it  _ talking _ ?!”  He heard Hawke cry out as Garahel took to the skies. He didn’t hear what else was said after, on account of the wind rushing by his ears and the powerful thrusts of the griffon’s wings.

“Did they attack Caer Bronach?” Blackwall demanded from Hope, guilt turning his voice sharp the words bitter. “Maker, I  _ knew  _ I should have stayed behind when the Inquisitor said she was sick, I knew I should have—”

“No one attacked the keep,” the dragon assured him from where she lay nestled between his legs and Garahel’s neck. “Bridget was feeling better after the healing spell, and we wanted to, er. Scout the area.” Hope faltered a bit, avoiding his eyes. “There’s a mine in the hills that’s been overrun by red lyrium, and some Templars snuck up on her. She was trying to reason with them rather than fight, but those monsters are irrational and only want blood.”

The thought of any Templar, red or no, laying their hands on her made a rage burn within him, the likes of which Blackwall had not felt in years. He spat out a curse, and it was lost in the wind as Garahel soared above the rocky slopes of Crestwood, flying faster than he ever had during their practice runs in Skyhold.

If anything happened to Bridget, Blackwall would never forgive himself. It would be another failure to add to his already long list, all of them things he could have prevented. His mouth tasted sour as he growled wordlessly in the back of his throat, shame digging its claws into his skin and spreading its poison throughout his body.

In the distance, he could see tall mounds of red protruding from the rock and grass below. Garahel turned sharply, descending towards it, when a sudden shock rippled across the three of them. It felt like standing outside during a storm, watching lightning strike in the distance, and the electric currents danced up and down Blackwall’s arms as someone spoke in his mind.

No, not exactly. There were no words, or voices, but rather...sensations. The impression of things. Accompanied by flashes of images, too quick to truly remember their appearance. A strange sort of static in his head, buzzing like a beehive and filling him with confusion:

_ Safe! Cave! Follow! _

Judging by Garahel’s bewildered caw and Hope’s intake of breath, they heard, or rather, they felt it as well. The griffon turned the other way, heading past the hills full of red lyrium, and beyond them were fields of farmland and small ponds dotting the picturesque landscape. Lumbering herds of druffalo grazed among wildflower, and did not even look up when Garahel landed a few feet away from them. There, nestled in the sloping hills that rose above them in natural stone arches, was a small cavern entrance lit by a single torch attached to the wall. 

Blackwall dismounted, eyes narrowed and hand going to the hilt of his sword. “Stay here,” he commanded Garahel quietly and began to march towards the cave, barely even noticing when Hope flung herself onto his shoulder. 

“I don’t think you need to be on high alert,” she said cryptically in his ear, making him jump slightly, but she said nothing more and he did not ask for further clarification. 

The blood was pounding in his ears as he crept along the darkness of the cave, feeling stifled by both the clammy air inside and the struggle to keep his panic in check. He didn’t know what that strange static and sensation was, but it had somehow felt familiar. A memory passed through his mind: when both he and Bridget had returned to Haven with the newly hatched Garahel, and when he had felt the urge to just be near her. He’d felt a similar sensation then, but he had assumed it was his own selfish needs gnawing at him from the inside.

_ No, it’s just a coincidence,  _ Blackwall told himself as he came to a wooden door built into the frame of the cave that blocked him from continuing. Tense and fingers ready to draw his sword at a moment’s notice, he pushed it open with his free hand, and stepped into a wide expansive cavern.

He expected an ambush.

He did not expect Bridget to rush towards him, arms outstretched, and embrace him so tightly he forgot how to breathe for the briefest of moments.

“Blackwall!” she exclaimed, grinning up at him and looking none the worse for wear. “I found more Wardens! They kicked Red Templar ass!”

Still hugging him, she jerked her thumb behind her excitedly, and all Blackwall could do in his astonishment was stare. His eyes met those of King Alistair, looking regal and grand in the Grey Warden uniform, grinning just as eagerly as Bridget.

“King Alistair is now my new best friend,” she continued, eyes flashing with a light he couldn’t ever recall seeing before. “He gave me this fancy cheese that just melts in your mouth, and told me stories about the Blight!  _ And  _ he laughs at my stupid jokes even though he doesn’t quite get the references. I love him.”

“Wh-what?”

It was the only thing that would come out of Blackwall’s mouth.

He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to be feeling. He had been so full of fear and guilt and rage-tinted shame, ready to slaughter anyone who even thought about bringing harm to her. But now, standing in the cavern with Bridget pressed against him (should he be embracing her back, just as boldly?)  like nothing was wrong, and the king of Ferelden smirking at him like he knew something Blackwall didn’t, the only thing swirling inside him was pure bewilderment. 

_ I believe I am suffering from what they call ‘emotional whiplash’. _

And then a voice Blackwall never thought he would hear again echoed throughout the cave, and he slowly turned his head to the source of it, a chill running down his spine.

“It’s been some time, Warden Blackwall. You’re looking...different.”

Getting up from a simple wooden chair sitting before a flat slab of stone covered in maps and documents was a dark-skinned and slender elf wearing the Grey Warden armor. Emerald markings Blackwall recognized as  _ vallaslin _ spiraled in intricate patterns down his handsome face. He sauntered towards Blackwall, his movements as fluid as a wolf, but his voice was gentle and lilting like a lullaby when he spoke again.

“Well, but different. Perhaps we should do some catching up?”

Memories danced in Blackwall’s mind. 

An inn’s tavern ten years ago, when the Blight had just appeared, and he was a man with a different name on the run. A young elf, kind enough to buy him a round, donning the robes of a Warden. Drunk—far too drunk, the kind of drunk one doesn’t want to be when they’re trying to escape from a crime breathing down their neck. A serving girl, accosted by men even drunker than he, and the punches he threw just so she could continue pouring his ale. 

Stumbling up the stairs with the elf and falling into a darkened room, his hands trembling and his mouth hot. Swearing he wasn’t going to regret it, swearing he wanted it, and at last knowing the touch of another man was just as sweet as the caress of a woman, and just as right. Tracing the forests and tree roots that ran all along his body, admiring how they implemented the two scars on his chest so subtly and perfectly. 

Begging him for forgiveness for the terrible things he had done, begging him to stay with him through the night so he wouldn’t keep running. Had he cried? Perhaps he had; he had wept at Liddy’s funeral, wept every time he picked her favorite flowers, but he could not remember if he had wept in the arms of the Warden. 

Falling asleep when his head resting on the Warden’s chest, his slender fingers stroking his hair, his voice tender as he sang softly in his people’s tongue. He had never felt such peace in all his life.

And then the next morning, when he was sober and ready to flee despite the compassion the elf had shown him, another Warden who called himself Blackwall. Human and gruff, who took him aside and asked him if he wanted to atone for his crimes by giving up himself for the greater good of the world.

A week later, cold and wet and miserable at the Storm Coast, waiting to ambush a group of darkspawn, and he realized he never caught the elf’s name. 

“Of course,” Blackwall heard himself say, affecting as much civility as he could muster. He was vaguely aware of Hope leaving his shoulder and joining Bridget. He was vaguely aware of Bridget asking the king to join her outside the cave, where he could meet the only living griffon in all of Thedas. He was vaguely aware of when the door clicked shut. 

He was all too aware of when the elf he had confessed his sins to a decade ago while laying in his arms smiled at him with more kindness he deserved and said, “Hello, Thom. I certainly didn’t expect to see you.”

“No,” Blackwall shook his head erratically, his breath coming out in short spurts. “Not Thom. Blackwall.  _ Please _ .”

“Ah, of course. My apologies. I of all people know how painful it can be to be addressed by a name that no longer fits you.” The Warden laid a hand on Blackwall’s shoulder and he almost reached into the touch like a cat desperate for attention. The hand was warm, even through the layers of armor he wore. “I must admit, I was surprised when the young lady told me that she was traveling with a Warden named Blackwall. Weisshaupt hadn’t heard from him in a decade. He was assumed dead. I assumed  _ you  _ were dead; you and the other conscripts he took to perform the Joining, slain by darkspawn.”

He paused, gauging Blackwall with dark eyes that swirled with a dozen emotions all at once. Blackwall wanted to give himself to those eyes the way he had ten years ago. He wanted to weep, beg him for forgiveness again. But he did not. He could not, and he tore his gaze away from the elf’s, staring down at the ground. He was as stiff as still as a deer cornered by a wolf, chest heaving with frantic breaths, palms sweating and a chill so cold it burned deep in the pit of his stomach.

“My name is Soren. Soren Mahariel.” Blackwall’s head shot up at that, and Soren smiled. It was the same kind smile he had given him in the tavern. “I realized I never told you. I apologize.”

“You’re…” Blackwall’s voice came out in a choked whisper. “You’re the...Hero of Ferelden. Your cache…”

_ Maker. I made love with the Hero of Ferelden, told him everything that I had done, and never even fucking knew it. _

Not for the first time, he thought about the irony of finding the Hero’s cache at the same place he became Blackwall.

Said irony was ten times stronger now that he knew who he was.

“Yes. Bridget told me how you two found my little hiding spot in the Storm Coast. My heart soared I learned the griffon egg had hatched.” Soren led him to the chair, and Blackwall sat down without prompting, holding his head in his hands. “I’m not angry, you know,” he added as Blackwall’s mind raced, fear and desperation clutching his heart in their wicked talons. “You wanted to redeem yourself. As far as I’m concerned, these last ten years, that’s exactly what you have been doing.”

“I’m a filthy liar and a bastard,” Blackwall spat out. “I haven’t even told  _ her _ !” He pounded his fist on the hard stone slab and the dull ache it brought him was nothing like the stabbing pain in his chest. His voice came out drained, weary, and full of shame. “...I’ve told her nothing, because I fear losing her too much to show her the real me.”

Of all the people in the world who would see him like this, why did it have to be the Hero of Ferelden?

Why did it have to be a true Grey Warden; a reminder of everything he wanted to be, but was not?

“You know that it is the right thing to do,” Soren said softly. “She loves you. I can see it, feel it. When she spoke to me of you, it was how I speak of my wife and son. Love is stronger than any fear. Love is stronger than any pain. Do you love her?”

“Yes,” Blackwall whispered. 

“Then trust in her. Trust in yourself. Give yourself fully to her, and I think you’ll find that she will do the same. Love isn’t give and take, Blackwall. It’s an equivalent exchange, and can only work when it is treated as such.”

Soren’s voice turned playful then, overlapping with the tender sympathy he seemed to practically radiate. “By the way, the beard is a nice touch. It’s quite charming and rustic. Do yourself a favor and never shave, yes? Were I not a married man, and you not currently courting such a lovely lady...” He trailed off, lips upturned with a smug and meaningful smirk.

Blackwall felt his face flush as the memory of Soren’s elegant touch and adept mouth. He cleared his throat a few times, sitting up straight and adjusting his posture, the cool air of the cave a blessing on his burning cheeks. 

“Yes, well...I never got to thank you for what you did that day. You...showed me a kindness I didn’t deserve, and had it not been for you, I might never have met Bridget.” It was difficult to speak so formally when his mind was full of the pleasure and comfort the two had shared so long ago. He met Soren’s eyes with a steady gaze, bowing his head ever so slightly. “You have my gratitude, Soren Mahariel.”

The elf nodded. “Of course. I will keep this between us; you have my word.”

Blackwall sighed as tension left his body and gave him a grateful, if not exhausted, smile. 

Soren clapped his hands together, gesturing to the cave’s exit. “Come. I’d like to meet the griffon that hatched! I was so uncertain of leaving the egg, even with the spells and wards my wife and I cast, but it was the only choice I had at the time.”

“How  _ did  _ you find a griffon egg?” Blackwall asked as the two opened the door and began to walk through the cavern, unable to keep the eager curiosity from his tone.

“I can’t tell the whole story, as I already explained to the young lady,” Soren answered apologetically. “After the defeat of the Archdemon, my wife and I roamed the world in search of...many things, a place to raise our son being one of them. We used something the ancestors of my people created, and it brought us to a crossroads between realms.”

Blackwall’s eyes widened as the light heralding the cave’s exit came into view. “Between realms? Such as...other worlds?”

_ Like where Bridget came from. _

“Yes. Again, I cannot reveal all, but we found a place where griffons still existed, and brought back an egg that was gifted to us.” 

They were outside when Soren finished speaking. Just a few feet away, Garahel was on his back in the grassy meadows, eyes half-lidded and tongue lolling from his beak. His paws stuck loosely in the air from the combined efforts of Bridget and King Alistair—no, Warden Alistair at this particular moment—rubbing his belly and scratching his wings and neck. 

“Who’s a good griffon?” Bridget was cooing lovingly, practically laying across Garahel’s stomach and burying her face in his downy fur. “You are!”

“I’ve never been so happy in my life,” Alistair practically sobbed, his voice pitched high with pure joy as he also lay in the nest of Garahel’s fur and feathers. “You are so much better than a mabari…”

Soren let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head as he strode over to the scene. Blackwall followed, unable to keep the relieved grin from his face as he knelt down by Garahel’s head, joining in on the spoil fest. He buried his hands in the thick mass of fur and feathers of the griffon’s neck, massaging and patting Garahel like he always would when no one else was looking. 

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Garahel.” Garahel’s eyes opened, golden and gleaming, and he turned his head towards Soren. There was a flash of recognition in the griffon’s gaze that Blackwall almost swore he imagined, but it was far too intelligent to ignore. “I’m honored that the egg I protected was given the name of such a brave, honorable Warden.”

“Blackwall chose it!” Bridget beamed, lifting her face from Garahel’s fluff. “Personally, I wanted to go with Nugget.”

“I, er...have a deep respect for the history of the Wardens. O-our history.” Blackwall inwardly cursed at the minor slip-up, wondering how the hell he could have done so after what had just transpired in the cave.

Luckily, neither Alistair nor Bridget gave any indication that they had caught on, and Soren simply smiled knowingly. 

Blackwall gazed at Bridget as she began to tell the two Wardens about Garahel’s hatching, hands gesticulating extravagantly with every detail. Her face was bright, her eyes were wide, and the grin in her voice was almost contagious. Sitting amongst the wildflowers with the sunlight streaming through her chestnut hair, Blackwall thought she couldn’t ever be anymore beautiful than she was in that moment.

_ I’ll tell you, _ he silently promised as she laughed at something Alistair said, resisting the urge to sweep her in his arms and whisk her away.  _ When we return to Skyhold, I’ll tell you everything. _

\---

Meeting Vazrah and Hawke and Varric back at Caer Bronach involved a lot of reprimanding and apologizing. Reprimanding on the part of Vazrah and Hawke, and apologizing on the part of Bridget. 

A lot of apologizing.

So much apologizing that by the end of the tag team scolding session performed by Vazrah and Hawke, Bridget wanted nothing more than to crawl back to her room and sleep for the rest of the day. 

But there was work to be done, now that the Inquisitor and the Hero of Ferelden had at last met face-to-face, resulting in a lot of what Bridget decided to call “lore dumping” for lack of a better term. Because Thedas may be a real world, but it was still full of magic and fantasy and heavily Dungeons and Dragons-esque, and categorizing certain things as such made it far easier for her to interpret them.

Hawke knew Soren because a relative of his, another Dalish mage by the name of Merrill who was one of Hawke’s closest friends, put the two of them in contact years ago when Kirkwall’s bullshit was at its finest. Bridget already knew that he and his wife and son (Soren never disclosed their names, which she understood for the sake of their privacy) had traveled the world with their combined magic from a previous discussion after he and Alistair had saved her from the Templars. And for the last couple of years, Soren had been on his own trying to find a cure for the Calling, staying out of the public eye of both civilians and the higher-ups of the order. 

Being told what the Calling was, however, made Bridget feel sick. It was something that afflicted all Gray Wardens eventually. 

Given to them due to their connection with the Blight, it was a song of corruption that lulled them to the Deep Roads, where they would fight darkspawn hordes until their last breath. The Wardens of Orlais were being affected by a fake Calling, according to the combined research of Alistair and Soren, most likely put unto them by the abilities of Corypheus. When Soren at last reached out to them in an attempt to learn more, he found out that agents of Tevinter had infiltrated the Wardens’ ranks, and Warden-Commander Clarel was devising a way to stop the Blight once and for all—summon a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and slay the remaining Archdemons.

Blackwall insisted the Calling wasn’t afflicting him, because he knew what Corypheus was. That didn’t stop Bridget from nervously taking Soren aside and asking him to keep an eye on Blackwall for any signs that he was suffering from it, to which the Hero of Ferelden promised he would do just that.

Alistair, though technically more king than Warden in the eyes of politics, decided to accompany Soren after he told the king that he was planning on contacting the Inquisition about everything. Bridget had been right about Alistair not having the slightly curved ears of an elf upon their first meeting; Soren was a master with shapeshifting magic (which made sense considering the big ass wolf form he had taken to slaughter the Red Templars), and periodically visited the king to lay a spell on his appearance to hide his half-elf nature. Alistair did not know who his mother was, but it was clear she had been an elf, and only the Wardens knew of his not-fully-human parentage.

For the sake of remaining king, it was a sad but necessary routine he had to go through. Especially if he were to implement some changes regarding mage rights, which already never went well, according to his laments. He hadn’t wanted to remove the mage rebellion from Redcliffe, considering how much he agreed with their decision and Grand Enchanter Fiona’s leadership. But the threat of a Tevinter Magister was simply far too serious to leave be, and Alistair hoped the Inquisition would provide a better haven for them.

(“Haven itself was a cock up, all things considered,” Alistair muttered after statement, the irony of the name not lost on him.)

Unfortunately, Hope had appeared to Hawke in addition to Blackwall and Vazrah and Varric in her panic to form a rescue party, and then on Blackwall’s shoulders when he found Bridget in the cave with Soren and Alistair. Tired of keeping it all a secret, and having Vazrah and Blackwall to back her up when she faltered, Bridget told everyone who was not already aware of how she was from a world far removed from Thedas. Hope explained how she was similar to a spirit, but not quite exactly one, and her role as a guide for those who needed her.

No one asked why Bridget had needed such a guide. They were all reeling from the revelation of there being other worlds, and yet more things regarding magic that they did not (and probably would not ever) understand.

Well, not Soren, on account of him already being aware that Thedas wasn’t the only world out there, and there was too much in the universe to ever truly know everything.

It was evening by the time all of the major discussions were sorted out. Vazrah let Alistair and Soren know they were welcome to find a spare room rather than hole out in the cave on the bluffs, which they did so readily. They had scared off the compromised Gray Wardens looking to drag them to Clarel, and the Inquisition scouts were still getting things ready at Skyhold to move to the new base of operations. 

Bridget was leaning against one of the ramparts watching the sun go down and absentmindedly wiggling a frayed piece of rope in front of Sylvie when Hawke approached her. Soren and Alistair were going over the maps and information they had gleaned about Corypheus’s whereabouts with Vazrah, and Blackwall and Varric were in the fields just outside of Caer Bronach sparring with the training dummies they had dragged from storage. Garahel was out hunting somewhere, still pretending like he couldn’t speak, and Hope had gone with him, to ensure that the griffon didn’t do anything foolish like challenge the local dragon to a territorial dispute.

“Hey,” Hawke greeted her with a slight wave, coming over and leaning up against the wall of the rampart as well. Her arms were crossed and her face unreadable, the jagged edges of her scar casting a shadow across her face from the sun’s waning light. 

“Hey.” Bridget shifted her feet awkwardly, focusing on Sylvie batting on the rope. Despite her apologies, and despite Vazrah and Hawke’s insistence that all was forgiven, she still felt slightly ashamed of going off on her own and nearly getting attacked by Templars after being so sick only mere hours before.

“I can’t imagine how hard it was to keep all that inside. Just between you and me, right here in this provincial little fort, I’d say we have the most interesting people modern Thedas has ever known.” Hawke grinned, but it didn’t quite reach her icy blue eyes. 

“You’re probably right. There’s my dumb ass from a place where magic doesn’t exist, the hot qunari with a glowing hand, the woman who helped to send an entire city into chaos, and the elf who literally saved the world.” 

Sylvie batted the rope one last time and decided enough was enough, jaws widening into a long yawn, before she sauntered off with her tail held high. Bridget sighed and tossed the rope onto the ground, grumbling dejectedly even though she had years of experience with the cantankerousness of cats.

“It explains why you keep using too much magic. I was afraid you were just a bit thick,” Hawke admitted, and Bridget glowered at her halfheartedly. Hawke held her hands up in apologetic defeat. “I’ve seen a little bit of everything! It comes with the job title as healer. Anyway,” she cleared her throat and put her hands on Bridget’s shoulders, looking deep into her eyes. “I didn’t want to bring it up before, because I wasn’t too keen on your stance on it, but I’d like to thank you for what happened to Cullen.”

“...what?”

Bridget wasn’t sure if she’d heard her correctly. She just stared, uncomprehending.

“He was the Knight-Captain in Kirkwall before he joined the Inquisition. He ignored everything the Templars did to the mages. When all of the abuse and disgusting shite came to light, he did  _ nothing _ .” 

Hawke lowered her head, slumping slightly, and Bridget felt a powerful urge to hug her. So she did, and Hawke wrapped her arms around Bridget tightly, almost clinging to her. “I hated that bastard,” she snarled as she buried her face against Bridget’s chest, fingernails digging into her arms. “So many innocent people suffered because of him and his ilk.  _ Anders  _ suffered. Cullen was at the tower Anders grew up at—you wanna know what Cullen used to say about mages? That they weren’t  _ people,” _ she spat out the word like it was venom, shaking slightly, “and they were nothing but monsters.”

Bridget remembered what she had seen in Cullen’s memories before the dragon had devoured him. She could still feel his rage if she thought hard enough; the hot anger and desire to hurt that had burned through her skin every time she came across him. His denial to own up to his mistakes, and his insistence that he was always going to be the true victim, despite centuries of cruelty towards those who were born with the gift of magic.

“So when I heard from the Inquisitor that he had been killed by a dragon? And that it had happened when he had gone out during the assault on Haven specifically just to attack you, a mage like myself? I was fucking thrilled.”

Hawke lifted her head up and the faintest hint of tears shone in the corners of her eyes. She pointed to the scar that ran down her face, hand shaking as her fingers traced the lines. Her voice was carefully even and shook just barely.

“He gave me this. After Anders destroyed the chantry in Kirkwall, Aveline—she was a guard captain, and my friend before she decided she’d rather have me and other mages rot in chains—tracked us with the help of Cullen and some other Templars. They threatened the Right of Annulment, among other things, and things got...messy. I don’t like to fight, because I’ve committed myself to healing rather than causing harm, but if those I love are in danger, then I won’t hesitate to protect them as best I can. Even if it means getting a blade stuck in my face.”

She suddenly untangled herself from Bridget and wiped at her face. “Ah, fuck, sorry,” she mumbled.

“For what? For caring about your friends, and for being angry about something that needed to change, but almost no one actually gave a shit?” Bridget shook her head vehemently as her voice rose, letting her fury about the whole system of mages and Templars get the better of her. “That’s nothing to be sorry for, Hawke. I might be from another world, and I might have cheated the magic system so I don’t know exactly what it’s like to be a mage here, but out of everything I’ve read and heard...you and Anders did the right thing. The rebellion was what mages needed. The Circles? They should be places of learning and safety, not the hellish prisons they’ve become. And Templars? Fuck them!”

Hawke laughed. It was a bitter sound, but she reached her hands out and grasped Bridget’s in them, squeezing hard.

“It’s a shame you didn’t come a few years before, and landed in Kirkwall. Someone like you would have been a blessing to have. Maferath’s balls, it was a blessing for Cullen to die when he did. I would have killed him myself when I showed up to the Inquisition, and in a much more painful way than being eaten by a bloody dragon.”

She smiled at Bridget, the bitterness slowly fading away, and Bridget managed to smile back even though on the inside everything was a swirling mess of emotions. Was it truly her place to judge how things worked in a world she wasn’t born in? Especially concerning how mages were treated; yes, she was a mage herself, but the storm had chosen her upon her arrival. She hadn’t dealt with years of persecution and torture.

_ No,  _ Bridget thought as Hawke suddenly embraced her again, silent and still as the sunset cast the two of them in mottled reds and oranges and yellows.  _ Anyone with a heart can see that this is wrong. No one deserves to be treated that way. Maybe that’s why Hope brought me here—to help the mages tear down everything that cages them.  _

“Would you like to meet them?” Hawke asked abruptly, squeezing Bridget one last time before pulling away and shifting her gaze to the sunset. “Anders, I mean. And Justice.”

When Bridget made a confused noise in the back of her throat, Hawke slapped her forehead and groaned. “Oh, right, you probably don’t know! Anders and Justice are...the same person. Most people would call him an abomination; that’s the term for when a mage becomes possessed, often by a demon. But Justice and Anders are different. They simply...are, but it’s easier to say Anders. Varric doesn’t know I have a way to contact him, and I’d like to keep it that way. It’s safer. I love him, but...”

She trailed off, shrugging uselessly. “Varric can be difficult with this kind of thing. He has a merchant’s mind. He doesn’t like to take one side over the other so much that it tips the scales. I know he means well, but sometimes it’s hard, especially when you want to change things as big as this. I push when I can, and it’s slow going, but he’s beginning to open his eyes a wee bit more to all the nasty shite we’ve allowed to fester.” 

“I get it. I had friends like that back...home.” Bridget faltered on the word ‘home,’ because could her old world even still be considered that, when she felt so much more at ease in Thedas? “Anyway,” she added as she hastily pushed back the thoughts she didn’t feel like having, “I would love to meet him. As long as it’s safe for him, I mean.”

“Fantastic! I’ll contact him later tonight, and we’ll figure something out.”

Hawke grinned, a true and cheerful gesture, and nothing like the acrid smile from before.

“I’ll leave you be now. I’ve taken up far too much of your time. But thank you; for havin’ a gab with me about all this. It’s nice to know someone else who feels the way I do, even if ye are from another world.”

She patted her on the shoulder, leaning over and planting a firm kiss on Bridget’s cheek, and rushed off as Bridget was stuttering and blushing with a carefree cackle. 

“What’s a little homoeroticism between friends?” Bridget mumbled as she clapped her hand to her cheek, where it felt hot and tingly from Hawke’s lips, and briefly wondered what it would feel like if it had been Vazrah. Hope’s presence probe her mind curiously, no doubt alerted by Bridget’s sudden spike in heartbeat, and she sent an “all clear” through their link. There was a brief pause, and then the sensation of amusement as the dragon received the glimpses of memories, and Bridget blushed even harder at the affectionate teasing tone Hope’s presence took on.

Thoroughly exhausted from the massive bulk of deep conversations she’d had in one day, Bridget dragged her feet until she made it to the makeshift galley. She grabbed some of the expensive fancy cheese that Alistair had proudly proclaimed came all the way from Antiva, along with some bread Soren himself baked (“A Dalish recipe, complete with herbs and nuts,” the elf had shamelessly bragged), and the dried jerky that was given to all Inquisition members as a traveling staple. 

Satisfied, and seeing no one around to stop and talk to her, she snuck off back towards the corridors that held everyone’s rooms, shutting the door quietly behind her and digging into the food the moment she set foot inside. It wasn’t until she’d actually had a moment to stop and breathe that she realized just how ravenous she was.

“God, I want chocolate,” Bridget mumbled wistfully as she swallowed the last bits of bread and cheese, sighing. “A gallon of ice cream, with brownie bits and fudge mixed in, all on top of a molten lava cake.”

She flipped on her stomach, burying her head in the musty pillows, fighting a pang of homesickness. But was it really homesickness if all you truly missed was certain types of food, the internet, and hot showers? 

She certainly didn’t miss any of the people. Not even her own parents. And especially not any of the “friends” she had left behind.

When she really thought about it, she couldn’t even remember her parents’ names or faces. Hell, her last name was still lost in a sea of loathing and apathetic weariness. Which she was completely fine with, because Bridget was fairly certain she’d never liked it anyway.

She must have drifted off at some point, dreaming of bakeries full of sweets so decadent her teeth her just to look at them, because the next thing she knew someone was knocking on the door and the room was as dark as the night sky outside the sorry excuse for a window above her bed. Snorting awake, Bridget untangled herself from the mess of sheets that had somehow wrapped around her body, stumbling around the room almost drunkenly. Her eyes were not adjusted to the darkness at all and she was drowsier than a tranquilized cow; Bridget smacked headfirst into the door before her hands could find the handle.

“Ow! Mother _ fucker _ ,” she hissed, clapping one hand to her forehead and using the other to fumble with the door and yank it open.

On the other side stood Blackwall, looking concerned as he watched her rub at her forehead and blink rapidly from the meager light cast by the half-dozen torches on the walls outside.

“Did I wake you?” he asked apologetically, moving towards her and brushing strands of hair out of her face and pressing his hand lightly against her forehead. His touch immediately eased the throbbing pain, almost like magic, and she leaned against him gratefully. 

“Yeah, but it’s fine, I didn’t mean to fall asleep in the first place,” she mumbled bashfully, unable to hold back the yawn that escaped from her mouth. “Was just...really tired from all the talking and stuff that happened today. Sorry.”

It was then that she realized she had never apologized (or even explained) the whole deal to him with her stumbling upon a Red Templar ambush in the first place. Everything had been such an info dump that she’d never really gotten the chance.

“I was wondering if you were feeling alright,” Blackwall said as she was mulling it over with a guilty frown, which made her feel even worse.

Wordlessly, Bridget gestured for Blackwall to come in, and he did so while shutting the door behind him. Summoning small orbs of lightning in her hands, Bridget flung them to the far corners of the room, where they illuminated everything in a soft, translucent cyan glow. She hopped on the bed and patted the spot next to her—considering how small the bed was, it was a tight fit, and she unabashedly used it as an excuse to lay her head against Blackwall’s shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have run off on my own like that. It was stupid, especially after what we talked about yesterday. I’m sorry I keep doing dumb things when I know better.”

“You’re forgiven. I’m just thankful nothing happened to you. I suppose I owe both the king of Ferelden and the Hero of Ferelden a favor now.”

An arm, strong and thick, wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer to him. She needed no excuse to snuggle further into him, basking in the glorious warmth of his chest.

“Last night, I decided to give some magic a try. The kind that can get dangerous if you aren’t careful. And I  _ was  _ careful, for the most part, I just...used too much of it, and got sick. Hawke and Vazrah used their spirit healing to make me better, and I wanted to do something useful in return, and thought it would be a good idea to scout the area. Evidently, I was very wrong.”

She slumped and sighed through her teeth, hiding her face against the thick fabric of his shirt, voice muffled when she spoke again.

“I need to stop thinking my magic makes me invincible. It’s just hard, you know? After being normal for so long, and then given something like this, I can’t always separate when magic makes a situation better or not.”

“That’s why you have me.” Blackwall’s chest rumbled as he spoke, and the vibrations were comforting against her cheeks as she pressed closer against him. “I want to be there for you when you’re struggling, Bridget. You don’t have to do everything on your own. Besides, I rather like fighting by your side.”

“Because I can electrocute anyone who gets too close to you?”

“No, because you’re beautiful.”

No one had ever called her that and meant it.

No one that actually mattered, that is.

Bridget’s breath hitched and her heart sped up as she looked up sharply, face growing hot. Blackwall smiled and leaned forward, his mouth brushing against hers in the barest of kisses, his beard tickling her ever so slightly. “You’re beautiful,” he repeated against her lips, and very slowly he leaned back until he was completely laying on the bed, bringing her with him. “You’re beautiful when you summon a storm with the snap of your fingers. You’re beautiful when you lose yourself in a book for hours so you can learn the history of Thedas. You’re beautiful when you smile and laugh, and you’re beautiful when you say what’s on your mind, everyone else be damned.”

Tears came to her eyes but they were quickly snuffed out when she kissed him proper, still unsure if she was even doing it right since she had never had any practice, but judging by the way he hummed in the back of his throat it was acceptable enough. He tasted like the sun and wind today—warm and free. His hands slid down to her hips and he hoisted her closer so that she was halfway on top of him. “You’re not half bad yourself,” Bridget joked when she broke away, heart pounding and head swimming with silliness. “It’s the beard, I think. Gives you this burly woodsman look that I find  _ irresistible _ . Please don’t ever get rid of it.”

“So I’ve been told.” Blackwall rolled his eyes before gazing at her with a seriousness etched into the lines of his face. “I love you. I want to be by your side, when you’ll have me. Let me be your shield, Bridget. Your sword. And in turn, you’ll be my storm, sweeping our enemies in a tempest so strong they won’t even know what hit them.”

“Dude, you are  _ so _ cheesy,,” Bridget mumbled as her face flushed again, smacking his chest lightly and trying not to hide from his intense gaze. He was going to give her a heart attack if he kept it up.

“Well, I did try some of the king’s supply. Perhaps it’s rubbed off on me?”

“You’re incorrigible!” she exclaimed, letting out a laugh as she yanked the blankets up and covered his face with it so he couldn’t see how badly she was blushing. Technically  _ she  _ wasn't the one hiding now. “...but thank you, Blackwall. For being so understanding. For loving me. For thinking I’m beautiful. For...everything. I’ll gladly be your storm any day.” 

She paused, making a strangled and embarrassed noise that couldn’t quite be considered a sigh nor a grunt.

“...will you stay with me tonight? A-and just…hold me?”

He pushed the sheets away from his head, emerging from them with messy hair, and pulled them around both himself and Bridget. It was somewhat awkward with the two of them laying down on the bed, but being squished and so close that she could feel him breathing was a price Bridget was willing to pay to share the bed with him again. His arms were snug around her and her senses were so full of Blackwall’s pinewood and leather scent that for a moment, she wondered if she could get delirious from it.

“As my lady wishes,” Blackwall murmured in her ear, voice low and soft. “You needn’t even ask.”

Bridget drifted off in the sanctuary of his arms, listening to the sound of his even breathing and beating heart.

She dreamed of bakeries again, but this time walking into them hand-in-hand with Blackwall. Of showing him her favorite things, laughing when he bit into a Bavarian cream donut and all the filling spurt out the other end. Smearing whipped cream all over his face when he was distracted by a display of multicolored macarons in every flavor imaginable. Kissing him and tasting vanilla amaretto, so sweet that she lost herself in the flavor of his tongue. Splitting a massive cupcake with him only to steal a bit of the frosting when he was paying attention to her and her alone.

It was so simple, so impossible, that her heart ached even in the dream. 

She would never go back there again, even if she had the chance. Thedas was her home now. She would just have to make sweeter memories in whatever medieval bakery she could find.

When she awoke in the morning, it was to Blackwall softly saying her name. She groaned as she came to, burying herself further in the nest of pillows and blankets, batting his hand away.

“Five mo’ mins…” she mumbled in a voice slurry with sleep.

“I would love to let you have it, but, er…” He cleared his throat somewhere near her head, voice hoarse and husky with embarrassment. “Your...trousers seem to have...disappeared…”

Bridget frowned into the pillows and concentrated on her lower half. Sure enough, her legs were bare as they brushed against the rough fabric of Blackwall’s pants, and she lifted her head up to scan the floor in the dim morning light. Crumpled in a ball next to the bed, the offending pile of fabric was almost impossible to discern from the floor, blending in with its brown color. 

“Huh. Got hot. Took ‘em off. S’not a big deal, you saw me in my undies the first night I was in Thedas,” she pointed out sleepily, reaching out to poke him in the beard before deciding it was too much effort to raise her arm all the way. Her head fell back into the bliss that was a pile of pillows, eyes already lulling shut again. “Pants are overrated anyway,” she heard herself mumble.

Blackwall groaned, a shuddering and miserable sound as he adjusted himself against her. Something hard poked her between her butt and the back of her thighs. “Oh, sweet Maker,” he breathed shakily, so quietly that she suspected she wasn’t supposed to hear it, and removed his arms from her waist before she realized what was happening. 

She felt him get up and leave the bed, much to her disappointment, and groped around blindly to try and catch the end of his shirt or hand to pull him back in. But all she grabbed was air and a fistful of blankets, which she pulled against her. Something draped across her body and Blackwall called out in an unsettlingly hurried voice, “I-I’ll just be...outside, patrolling the perimeter…!”

The door opened and slammed shut, his footsteps echoing as they faded down the hall. Bridget grunted and lifted her head again to see her leggings placed on top of her blanket-covered body, and the sudden epiphany hit her like a truck.

_...oh my god. I think he had a boner. I think  _ I  _ gave him a boner! _

Bridget stared at the leggings in her hands and silently screamed as her body threatened to go into overdrive, hot and prickly all over. There was a moment of pure panic. Up until now, everything between them had been...relatively tame? And yes, she’d thought about the next step more than once, but it was usually in dirty daydreams and situations that probably wouldn’t ever occur naturally. 

Was she even ready for that? 

It was one thing to fantasize. It was an entirely other thing to actually go through with it.

Would Blackwall even want to have sex with her? She was the textbook definition of “inexperienced,” and there was the matter of Bridget being uncertain about whether or not she was okay with it all. It wasn’t like she’d ever had someone back home (no, not home, she had to stop thinking of it like that) who had even come close to making her feel the way Blackwall did. There were times when she imagined that sex would be totally fine, and that she was probably just making a big deal out of nothing, because it was a natural thing and nothing to be ashamed of. But there were also moments were the mere mention of it made her freeze up and forget how to breathe, not wanting to have anything to do with it.

“It’s too fucking early to have an existential crisis about whether I’m ready for sex or not,” Bridget berated herself out loud as she yanked her pants back on. 

Leaving the sanctity of the warm bed, she opened the door and stepped out into the cool morning to find Hope and Sylvie curled up together in a pile of hay just outside the room. Hope lifted her head and gave a knowing nod in greeting, and Bridget covered her face with a humiliated groan.

“Don’t...say...a word…” 

“Who, me? I am but the picture of absolute silence.”

Hope flew to her shoulder and settled in her usual spot, pleased to be in plain sight rather than hiding in a pocket for once. Bridget bent down and gave Sylvie a good morning smooch, rubbing under her chin as the cat purred happily. 

“Did you happen to see where Blackwall went?” Bridget asked Hope as casually as she could muster when she straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off of her clothes.

“I believe he was heading the highest part of the walls.” Hope wrapped her tail around herself and tucked her wings flush against her form, snuggling into the crook of Bridget’s neck. “The others all got up early, save for Soren, to investigate the surrounding areas for more possible Rifts. Vazrah told me to let you know, because she didn’t want to barge into your room.”

“How kind of her,” Bridget responded dryly.

“Soren is going over more of his Warden documents in the temporary office on the main level, if you’d like to speak with him.”

“Actually, that’s a great idea. I wanna ask about the Dalish! There’s only so much you can learn from musty old books written by prejudiced humans.”

When Bridget arrived to the room Hope directed her to, the door was wide open and the sun was streaming through the small window that seemed to be the norm for Caer Bronach. A dozen candles floated effortlessly through the air, bobbing up and down as if they were immersed in water, filling the room with a gentle warm light that gave it a cozy, almost library-like feel. It was significantly less dusty than most of the keep’s other rooms and had a pleasant floral aroma wafting out of the doorway, rather than the musty, moldy scent Bridget had become accustomed to.

Soren was sitting at a large and simple wooden text piled high with towers of papers and tomes, and he wasn’t alone.

Blackwall was standing behind him, reading something over the other Warden’s shoulder, and both of them glanced up when Bridget walked in.

Immediately, his face morphed into a ruddy flush, and he coughed into his hand a couple of times. “A-ah, good morning, Bridget...did you sleep well last night?”

_ Babe, you’re not fooling anyone,  _ Bridget thought amusedly when Soren hid a knowing smile with a yawn. But she would play along, for Blackwall’s sake.

“Pretty good, but it would have been better if I was completely naked. Sometimes you just gotta go simple, ya know?”

Blackwall’s coughing escalated into a full blown fit and he had to turn around, shoulders heaving as he sputtered out, “H-how...wonderful for y-you…!”

**_You are such a little shit. No wonder Garahel acts the way he does,_ ** Hope teased her mentally, and Bridget just sent an image of herself sticking her tongue out and blowing a raspberry in response.

“What can I do for you, lady Bridget?” Soren asked with a respectful nod once Blackwall was finished dying.

“I was wondering if I could ask you about Dalish culture. If it’s okay with you, I mean, I don’t want to overstep any boundaries...I would just rather know about it from an actual Dalish elf as opposed to a book that’s probably been heavily edited.”

“Not at all! I would be happy to share the stories of my people with you.” He swiveled his head and met Blackwall’s eyes, something indecipherable passing between both of them. “Do you mind if we put this business on hold, Warden Blackwall?”

Blackwall shook his head. “It’s not as important as this. I’ll leave you two be, and go find Garahel. Maker knows what the little rascal gets up to when left to his own devices.”   
  
“Nonsense. The more the merrier! Besides, your griffon is an intelligent beast who knows how to take care of himself. It is not wise to underestimate him; you would be surprised at he is capable of.” The elf winked subtly at Bridget, and she fought back the urge to gasp scandalously.

_ He knows! He knows Garahel can talk! Hell, he probably taught him in the egg or something. Solas, -1, Bridget and Garahel, + 100! _

“I...suppose you’re right,” Blackwall agreed reluctantly, crossing his arms with a huff.

“What is it that you wish to know?” Soren turned his attention to Bridget, who had pulled the only other chair in the room up to the desk. Now that she was closer, she could see the wooden mug full of wildflowers hiding between stacks of documents, looking far more vibrant than she would have imagined after being picked. The fresh smell was positively relaxing.

“I guess I’d like a better explanation for the tattoos on your skin,” she began, gesturing to the emerald markings on Soren’s face. “I’ve read that they’re called v... _ vallaslin,  _ hope I pronounced that right, and the Dalish get them when they become adults.”

“That is usually the basic understanding most humans have, but there’s a bit more to it.” Soren shifted in his chair and undid some latches in his Warden armor, shrugging off the chainmail and pushing the thick blue fabric aside to show his shoulder. The green markings could be seen on his dark skin, and judging by the elegant patterns, most definitely continued down the rest of his body. “The  _ vallaslin  _ are sacred. We choose the markings based on which god of the Evanuris we wish to honor. Mine are the markings of Mythal; she is the Protector and All-Mother, a goddess of love and justice.”

“Oh yeah!” Bridget wriggled in her seat excitedly. “The letter you left with Garahel’s egg mentioned her! I should have put two and two together, my bad.”

“That’s quite alright. You are a human from an entirely other world; you can’t be expected to know everything of Thedosian culture, much less the Dalish.” He smiled at her and pulled the shirt back up, redoing the ties in the armor. “Before I became a Warden, I was First to the Keeper. Mythal is my patron; I was to help my clan in following her ways. But I encountered darkspawn when I joined some hunters on an expedition to recover a lost artifact of my people, became infected with the Taint, and the only cure was to join the Wardens. When one performs the Joining, they consume darkspawn blood, forever damning themselves to the Taint. Since I was already infected, it was a way to stabilize it, and also help stop the Blight since I was no longer of any use to my clan.”

“I didn’t know that,” Blackwall cut in with a stunned tone, frowning contemplatively. When Soren glanced at him with oddly sharp eyes, Blackwall’s eyes bulged with a brief flash of panic. “That you were infected, I mean. I was aware of everything else, of course.”

He’d been acting odd ever since meeting Alistair and Soren. Bridget just chalked it up to him being used to having the distinction as the only Warden around in the Inquisition.

“The Wardens guard their ways well. Technically, if they knew I had told you, they would not be pleased with me,” Soren admitted to Bridget, conspicuously ignoring Blackwall’s words. “But I am of the belief that such secrets should be shared with the world, for they are essential to saving it.”

“Is that why you never tell me anything?” Bridget asked Blackwall over Soren’s shoulder, genuinely curious. “Only the basic history? Because you aren’t allowed to talk about certain stuff with non-Wardens?”

“Yes,” he answered, a little too quickly in Bridget’s opinion, nodding emphatically. “It isn’t a rule I’m terribly fond of, but my duty to the order comes first.”

There was that look again in Soren’s eyes. A mixture of pity and listless discomfort. Maybe a hint of jealousy? 

Or maybe Bridget was reading the situation completely wrong. It wasn’t like she was a professional at body language and picking up on the subtle complexities of others’ moods. Quite the opposite, really. But then the elf said something that she wasn’t expecting and, judging by the way Blackwall furrowed his brows, neither did he.

“Duty is all well and good, but one must never forget what is truly worth fighting for.” Soren’s voice became hushed, solemn. “I am loyal to my oaths. I am loyal to the Wardens. But were a situation arise where my loved ones were ever put in danger because of the order...I would not hesitate to break my vows to protect them.”

Bridget and Blackwall said nothing, the sudden change in atmosphere affecting them both. Even the candles floating around them, obviously powered by Soren’s own magic, seemed to flicker and dim.

“My wife and son are everything to me. My wife gave me the means to become who I was born to be, and loved me despite my flaws. My son is worth more than all the gold and lyrium in the world combined. I would lay down my life to protect them, even if I were to disobey the Grey Wardens.”

He absentmindedly rubbed at a ring on his finger that Bridget hadn’t noticed until now. It was a simple silver band, seemingly ordinary, but if she focused long enough she could sense the tangible threads of magic woven into its being. It was a warm and tender magic, that whispered of protection and things so ancient and unknown that even the storm could not fully explain it to her in a language she would understand.

“Being loyal to something bigger than yourself is an honorable truth I cannot deny. But loyalty to the ones you love? That’s the true purpose in life, Warden Blackwall. Be sure to remember that, especially in your times of struggle.”

The candles brightened. Soren’s smile returned. It was as if nothing so strangely deep and intense as the one-sided conversation he had just had with himself ever happened.

Thoroughly bewildered and not about to open up whatever can of worms he was clearly offering them, Bridget gave a nervous laugh and said, “So how about those hallas, yeah?”

It wasn’t hard to notice how uncomfortable and how pensive Blackwall was for the remainder of Bridget’s Dalish culture lecture, but she didn’t let it bother her.

Whatever he was distracted with, she trusted him to tell her in his own time.

\---

The party lingered in Crestwood for two more days.

The majority of their time was occupied by roaming the countryside and bluffs, finding the remaining Rifts and battling the demons and other nasties while Vazrah used her magical hand to seal them. 

Alistair and Soren were happy to help, eager to be of some use after skulking about in hiding for so long. Alistair in particular, since he didn’t get to go out much in the field as king, and claimed he desperately missed deciding fights with a sword rather than a snide comment and a different seating arrangement.

As for how the king of Ferelden was even managing to play Warden again, it was evidently thanks to a mysterious Antivan assassin who knew three different body doubles for every major political figure in Thedas. And a lot of flashcards regarding proper kingly protocol for said body doubles, written by Alistair himself.

Bridget only caught a glimpse of the local dragon once, when they were all scouting the pastures high in the bluffs. It soared above them, heading in the direction of the lake, and the telltale crackling of the storm’s magic coated it from head to tail. Having consumed a text about draconology during her hermit days at Skyhold, she was able to determine that it was most likely a Northern Hunter. Voracious eaters, they often nested where food source was plentiful, and a lake that came with a complimentary snack bar in the form of cattle was a perfect habitat. 

She did not sneak out to see it, even though she desperately wanted to. 

Bridget figured she had made enough reckless decisions for at least a month. Hope was still uncertain how to speak to modern dragons. Not to mention her free time was dedicated to carefully monitoring Bridget’s transformation process and ensuring a repeat of that one certain night didn’t occur.

None of this stopped Garahel from going off on his own, of course. He returned in the dead of night with a slightly singed tail, smelling like an exploded light bulb, and a vibrant account of just how close one can get before the Northern Hunter decides to breathe lightning at you.

His evaluation?

Not very.

The day of their set return to Skyhold, Vazrah realized that no one had reported to the mayor of Crestwood about the Rift being sealed and the undead problem taken care of. It should have been somewhat obvious to the farmers and villagers since there were no longer any hordes of zombies shambling about, but Vazrah was the Inquisitor. She was expected to be both messenger and warrior, no matter how much she disliked it.

“It’s not helping people that I hate,” Vazrah confided to Bridget as she was attuning her staff, it having been slightly damaged by a sneaky despair demon (which were gross floating rags that shot ice and made Bridget want to punch them for essentially trying to be depression personified) the day before. “I  _ want  _ to help people. But I’m tired of being expected to take care of every little problem that exists. I’m just a qunari, not a miracle worker. The only reason I accepted the title of Inquisitor is because there was no one else to do it.”

It wasn’t the first time she spoke freely about how much of a burden being the Inquisitor was for her. It surely wouldn’t be the last. Bridget wanted to help more than she already was, but as Vazrah insisted it wasn’t necessary.

“You’re doing enough for me just by being my friend and keeping me grounded. You see me as Vazrah, not the Herald; not the Inquisitor.  _ That’s _ what I need. Just keep doing it, and I won’t ask much else from you.”

It wasn’t the first time Vazrah had told her as such.

And as long as Bridget felt that there was still more she could do, it surely wouldn’t be the last.

Bridget remained at Caer Bronach with Alistair and Soren while everyone else headed off to the village, helping them gather their things up. The two Wardens would not be coming back to Skyhold with the rest of them, as their presence in the Inquisition may cause some unwanted attention, and they were focused on finding the Wardens under Corypheus’s control. They had figured out the possibility of these Wardens performing a ritual to summon and bind the demons using an ancient Tevinter relic out in the Western Approach. It was an area in southwestern Orlais that had been corrupted beyond repair during the Second Blight, and now was a massive arid wasteland.

It was highly probable the compromised Wardens were out there, Soren explained to Bridget when she looked over the maps of the area with a scrutinizing eye, because only two groups of people went willingly to the Western Approach. Grey Wardens, to keep the darkspawn from surging in numbers; and bandits, to attack caravans unfortunate enough to take a shortcut through the desert.

The discovery wasn’t terribly thrilling for Bridget, in all honesty.

She’d willingly trek through the mountains and zombie-filled countryside to help the Inquisition, but a desert? With sand and heat and probably giant magical scorpions that spat acid?

Not so much.

She just hoped Vazrah (or Blackwall, for that matter, considering it was Grey Warden business as much as Inquisition) didn’t ask her personally to come with, because then she’d be obligated to say yes.

Everyone else returned from the reporting mission to the mayor a couple hours later. Evidently, he had mysteriously disappeared, and no one in the village had a clue as to his whereabouts. Vazrah wasn’t overly concerned, having done what she had come to do, and everyone figured that no news was good news.

Alistair’s suggestion was, “Perhaps the mayor decided to simply take a vacation from all this Rift madness. I hear Rivain is lovely this time of year. Lots of attractive pirates and the like, you know?”

When it was finally time to part ways, being that the Inquisition scouts were due to arrive at Caer Bronach any moment, they all met in the keep’s main courtyard.

Soren handed Vazrah a single letter.

“Please give this to Leliana,” he requested, dark eyes full of regret. “I fear I’ve been an atrocious friend to her these last few years, what with going places not even her little birds can find me. I will come and visit her in person soon. For now, this is the best I can offer.”

“I’ll see to it that she gets it delivered by me personally,” Vazrah promised with a stern nod, shaking his hands. They were so small and slender compared to hers that they almost completely disappeared.

“And this is from me, to Grand Enchanter Fiona.” Alistair offered Vazrah another letter. “I want to give the mages more than pretty words and unfulfilled promises. When this Warden business is conducted, I will redouble my efforts to reform Ferelden’s policies on mages. They deserve to be who they are in a safe environment, free from threats both inside and outside of their institutions.”

Hawke had been the one to bring it up initially, with all the brash honesty Bridget had come to expect from the Champion.

“You’re a bloody king and a veteran of the Fifth Blight. If that isn’t enough to make some changes, then what is? Being Divine? Clearly not!”

Alistair had agreed wholeheartedly. It seemed to have been troubling him ever since he dismissed the mages from Redcliffe.

“I can’t speak for the Inquisition, Your Majesty,” Vazrah held her head high as she accepted the letter, “but I will be honored to meet your efforts personally, and see that something is done.”

“You’re the  _ Inquisitor _ , Bonfire. You technically do speak for the Inquisition,” Varric pointed out. Hawke elbowed him in the shoulder, silencing him with a glare before turning her attention to Alistair.

“You can count me in as well. I did what I could in Kirkwall, but I’ll be damned if I don’t let how poorly that ended stop me.”

“Excellent. I’ll be in touch. Though try not to use the standard runner for this, if you please?” Alistair scratched a pointed ear, eyes averted bashfully. “I’m a king, and I probably shouldn’t be involved in possible revolutions. Might bring my ratings down a bit. Can’t have that!”

“I’m sure Leliana will think of something. She  _ is _ a spymaster, after all.” Soren smiled at Vazrah and Hawke, a grateful light reaching his eyes. “ _ Ma serannas _ , my friends, for all that you are trying to do. This path you take is not an easy one. Walk with Mythal’s blessing.”

Maybe she was imagining things. But Bridget swore she felt a rush of...something settle around her when Soren spoke. Something that made her stand up straighter as a warmth blossomed inside her chest, and a quiet voice too far away to be heard whispered something incomprehensible in her ear.

The strange awareness disappeared when she became distracted by the scene of Alistair throwing his arms around Garahel’s neck dramatically. The griffon, who had been sitting on his haunches as statuesque as can be, let out an indignant squawk as his feathers ruffled from the unsuspected cuddle attack. Sylvie had been relaxing elegantly between his wings and upon Garahel’s wriggling, meowed in annoyance and leapt to the ground, trotting over to Bridget and winding in between her legs.

“Oh, I’ll miss this,” the king of Ferelden bemoaned, shoving his face in the same spot Bridget often did, right in Garahel’s mane of feathers and fluff. He gazed at the griffon with eyes swimming with adoration, giving him one last pat on the head. “You’ve got an entire legacy riding on your wings. Don’t let it make you stop appreciating the finer things in life such as being cuddled, please.”

Bridget half expected Garahel to answer him out loud and blow his cover of pretending he couldn’t speak. Instead, he just bobbed his head up and down in a nod, rumbling affirmatively in his throat.

After the display, Alistair and Soren shook hands with Blackwall, who hadn’t stopped looking like he had a blade stuck between his ribs ever since the odd moment in the office with the latter Warden. Not even when Bridget hugged him tight, silently begging him to tell her what was wrong. 

He watched them depart stoically, his gaze never wavering until the two figures clad in silver and blue disappeared into the hills and bluffs of Crestwood. Worry squeezed Bridget’s insides, wringing them out dry. She didn’t like how bleak and reserved he was acting. Something was clearly wrong and she had no idea what it was, and she wasn’t about to push him about it.

But…

Hadn’t she made it clear that she would always be willing to listen to him? Hadn’t he done the same for her?

_ He’ll tell me when we’re back at Skyhold. Won’t he? It was the promise we made to one another. To talk about the things we’ve been too scared to talk about up until now. _

There was no use dwelling on it. They would be back soon enough. 

Nonetheless, Hope nuzzled her cheek and sent calming waves that washed over her, smelling of the wildflowers that permeated Crestwood’s fields. Bridget leaned against the dragon’s body gratefully, careful not to shove her off of her shoulder, and sent a thought of gratitude as she let her focus settle back to what was currently going on.

Vazrah was drawing arcane symbols in the dirt with the end of her staff, looking somewhat hurried.

“Alright, everyone. I trust Scout Harding to lead the teams from Skyhold here without any problems. I’d rather just return now rather than wait to meet them, because quite frankly...I don’t want to be coerced into doing anything more than I said I would.”

Hawke shrugged, nodding thoughtfully. “I could go for a nice hot soak. The sooner the better!”

“Good, because it wasn’t going to happen any other way.”

The spell circle flared to life when the last sigil was drawn, glowing and pulsing with magic. Varric and Blackwall eyed it menacingly, no doubt already feeling the effects of magical motion sickness just by looking at it. Garahel edged closer to Blackwall, sniffing disdainfully at the glowing symbols on the ground. Bridget swept Sylvie into her arms and held her against her chest, hoping that cats were immune to magical motion sickness and that she wasn’t about to be covered in a hairball.

Everyone stepped into the circle, and it activated before the non-mages could say a word of protest. 

Bridget was beginning to get used to the teleportation magic. The reeling sensation of vertigo barely made her bat an eye now. Caer Bronach dissolved into splotches of darkness and her body went numb. The popping of air displacement burst in her ear as the familiar sight of Skyhold’s war room came into view around her. 

Varric and Blackwall groaned and wobbled on their feet. Garahel made a pathetic whining noise and Sylvie struggled in Bridget’s arms, meowing and twisting until she could break free. There was no violent upchucking of any sort from either animal and Sylvie, being the fickle creature that she was, trotted off without so much as a goodbye and disappeared out of the war room’s wide open doors.

A few moments later, the sound of Josephine crying out in alarm and lapsing into a sneezing fit could be heard echoing through the halls. 

Vazrah’s shameful grin was also somewhat amused. “Oh, dear. She’s allergic to cats.”

“Oops. Sorry.” Bridget scrunched up her face and paused in brushing off the cat hair from her shirt onto the ground.

“It’s alright. She’ll be fine in a couple of minutes.” Vazrah stretched her arms above her head and rolled her neck from side to side, sighing in relief. “I’ll debrief her and Leliana on everything that happened. You all can go take the time to relax and do whatever you do when you’re not running around sealing Rifts with me.”

With a wave and not another word, she strode out of the war room with her head held high, looking far more relaxed to be back at Skyhold compared to the last couple days in Crestwood. The combined voices of both she and Josephine reverberated from the halls, too far and too hushed to really hear anything.

Hawke yawned and rubbed at her eyes. “Oh sweet Maker I hope the baths aren’t full. Might as well get a good ol’ soak in before I go see which new eejits hacked their fingers off during training.” She winked conspiratorially at Bridget, who fought hard not to blush at the next words that came out of her (very pretty) mouth.

"You’re more than welcome to join me, love. Wouldn’t mind having you around to wash the spots I can’t reach.”

“N-no, I’m fine for now!” Bridget blurted out, waving her hands in front of her in denial.

“Eh. Your loss. Varric will do just fine.”

“Am I second best now? Hawke, you wound me! After all the compliments I’ve paid you, both verbally and in writing?”

“Quit yer whinin’ and just come along, you smooth talking git.”

The pair sauntered out of the war room with a meaningful stride, and Bridget called out after them, “Having sex in a public bathing facility is a health hazard, you know!”

Neither answered, probably laughing too hard, and she huffed petulantly. Turning to Blackwall, she opened her mouth to ask him what he help bringing Garahel back to the stables when Hope interrupted her from her spot on her shoulder.

“I believe Garahel would like to go for a quick flight. He has some new techniques he would like to try in colder weather. Wouldn’t you, Garahel?” 

Her voice was targeted and purposeful as she met his golden gaze with steely sapphires, and the griffon looked like he was struggling not to answer her in his own voice. He did not give in, however, and nodded eagerly—a little too eagerly for Bridget’s taste, and suspicion flared up inside her. She gave Hope a confused look and the dragon responded with a subtle flick of the tail towards Blackwall as she hopped from her shoulder onto Garahel’s back, hiding snugly between his wings. 

“Just a few laps around Skyhold, and then we’ll be back. I’ve become his...what’s the phrase in your world, dear heart? Copilot?” Bridget nodded numbly at Hope, who beamed. “Excellent! See you both in an hour or so!”

Garahel barreled down the hallway as fast as he could get his bulk through the tight corridors, Hope hidden from the rest of the world safely in the confines of his feathers. Bridget and Blackwall were silent for a bewildered handful of seconds, before the latter cleared his throat and turned his gaze onto her.

“May I accompany you to your chambers? The matter I’d like to discuss with you...I would much rather do it sooner than later, if you’ll allow it.”

“O-oh. Yeah, no, sure, that’s totally fine.” She laughed nervously, swallowing the anxious lump in her throat. “I guess I’m feeling the same way. The key to any good relationship is healthy communication after all!”

And so they walked, going past Josephine’s office where she and Vazrah were so deep in conversation that neither even registered their presence. Bridget had become an expert in maneuvering her way through the corridors and slipping by the handfuls of nobility who usually lingered in close knit groups, sneering at everyone whom they deemed beneath them. Which, in all honesty, was pretty much anyone who didn’t wear a fancy dress or feathered hat or gaudy Orlesian mask. Who wore a masquerade mask on a daily basis, anyway?

When they reached Bridget’s small private chambers, she had to resist the urge to flop on the (much bigger than Caer Bronach’s) bed and hide under the sheets to avoid talking like an adult. 

She was scared. There was no denying that. She was scared, because she didn’t know what Blackwall wanted to tell her, and despite all of the tender moments they had shared in Crestwood, the irrational side of her mind was screaming that he was going to end things. That she wasn’t good enough for him. That she wasn’t beautiful, or strong, and that he had been saying those things to mock her while pretending to actually care.

Just like Leah.

_ No,  _ she thought sharply, biting the inside of her cheek as the painful memories threatened to resurface.  _ Blackwall isn’t that bitch. Whatever he wants to tell me, it will not end the way that did. I believe in him. I believe in  _ us.

“Under normal circumstances I would want a lady to speak first,” Blackwall admitted as she brought herself back to reality, his voice thick and hard to read. “But I fear that if I don’t say what I need to say  _ now _ , I’ll lose my nerve and not speak at all. I hope you can forgive me, and for being so sullen the last couple of days. I have had...much on my mind.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him, sitting down on the bed and pulling her legs up so that she was crossed legged. “Everyone gets in a mood sometimes. Believe me, I’m the queen of moods.”

He joined her without prompting, fitting easily on the bed, and sighed deeply. A hand reached out and gently cradled one of her own; it was shaking, just barely, and when Bridget looked at him Blackwall’s eyes were guarded and his mouth was drawn in a thin line. She reached within the storm inside her and concentrated, pulling and tugging at the electromagnetic strands of his mind and soul. 

Turbulence.

Chaos.

Terror.

Regret.

Each sensation was like a stab to her heart and she squeezed her eyes shut, cutting the connection off before he knew what was happening. She’d accidentally encased him in the net of magic when trying to tell Garahel and Hope that she was safe from the Templars, and she didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. Plus, it wasn’t fair to him for her to be able to sense his thoughts, even if it was for a good reason.

Blackwall took another deep breath. And then another. His hand twitched around hers, once, before he began to speak in a low and rumbling tone.

“Once, there was a young boy named Thom Rainier who lived in Markham with his mother and father and younger sister. They weren’t poor, but they weren’t well-off, either. His father was a carpenter. His mother was a seamstress. His sister, a fragile child named Liddy who loved her brother as fiercely as he loved her, fell ill one day.”

She knew that name.

It was the name of the man Blackwall had told her who had died years ago at the Coast, during the darkspawn attack.

The pain in his voice when he spoke the name hurt her. But she remained silent, listening intently as he continued on.

“The boy did his best to find odd jobs around the city so he could give his parents money for her medicine. But it wasn’t enough—nothing was ever enough, and before long his sister went to sleep one night and never woke up the next morning. Thom blamed himself, as you can imagine. His parents even more so. Barely a year after Liddy was put in the ground, his parents fell ill too, and left him even sooner than she had. And then the boy was all alone in the world.”

Blackwall faltered, and Bridget squeezed his hand tightly. 

“Thom became consumed with grief and wandered the Free Marches, throwing himself in with all kinds of sellswords and mercenaries. He learned how to fight, and he was good at it, despite everything. His grief turned to greed. Not before long, the boy became a man, and what a cocky son of a bitch that man was, accepting only the highest paying jobs. There was a melee at a Grand Tourney. Thom won, but only with the help of a chevalier, and his pride and desire for gold made him refuse the offer to be mentored by the man.”

He shook his head, a bitter and derisive smile showing up for the briefest of moments on his face.

“The gold he won was lost in drink and gambling. Thom found himself enlisting in the Orlesian imperial army; a position that promised high pay and fame. For years he traveled Perendale and the Dales, learning war strategy and honing his martial skills. He was a Marcher, but the Orlesians came to respect the bastard, because of how eager and dedicated he was to the army. It wasn’t long before he was promoted to captain. An ally of Grand Duke Gaspard named Ser Robert Chapuis ordered Thom to attack an ally of the Empress, one Lord Vincent Callier. Thom thought nothing of it. It was a civil war, and nobility pitted their soldiers against one another every day. So he marched, and told his men that it was just an important mission that would earn them more gold than they could imagine. But Callier wasn’t alone the day of the attack. His wife and children were there. And every single one of them was slaughtered, right on Thom’s orders.”

A pit opened up in Bridget’s stomach. She felt cold. Blackwall’s hand was clammy and shaking in full now as he gripped her own so tightly it almost hurt, but she did not pull away. And he did not stop talking, every word now being spat out with all the venom a man could muster.

“It was a fucking massacre. Gaspard disavowed Thom’s actions. Chapuis killed himself from the shame. His men—the men he had ordered to kill innocent children and a man and woman who couldn’t even defend themselves—were branded as traitors. And Thom? He ran. Ran like the fucking coward he is, all the way to Ferelden, where he got too drunk in a tavern and met a Grey Warden who promised him he could become a new person. Someone who could fight for a purpose. Someone who could save innocent lives, rather than taking them.”

Bridget knew, then.

She knew who Blackwall was talking about.

But she couldn’t say it out loud. Her voice was stuck in her throat. She just looked at him, unblinking, and he looked at her just as steadily. She could see her reflection in his eyes. 

And if she really looked hard, she could see the years fall off of Blackwall, to reveal the man he once had been underneath.

“That Warden’s name was Blackwall,” he said in a voice just below a whisper, removing his hand at last. Hers throbbed dully with the force of his grip, but she barely noticed it. “He took Thom and a few other prospective conscripts to the Storm Coast. There was a darkspawn ambush. Blackwall protected Thom from a fatal blow. I think you know the rest.”

He got up from the bed then, back to her as his voice rang out clear, bouncing off the walls of the room.

“Warden Blackwall is dead. He has been for years.  _ I _ am Thom Rainier.”


	17. interlude iii: sincerity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little self-indulgent vazrah pov full of glorious vaz/josie goodness.

“Josephine, you know I would be happy to do anything for you,” Vazrah insists as she leans forward, hands on the desk and body towering over the ambassador’s. “You’re the backbone of the Inquisition. If there’s something you need of me, I’ll do it.”

All of the frustration and tension of being the Inquisitor melts away the moment she steps into Josephine’s office. The ambassador’s sneezes are dainty and soft, just like her. Bridget’s cat is nowhere to be seen, most likely hiding in some dark corner catching mice. Vazrah is vaguely aware of Hawke and Varric strolling by as Josephine lightheardly complains about the new layer of fur in her office. Moments later, she thinks Blackwall and Bridget do the same.

But right now her world is nothing but Josephine Montilyet.

“It’s not important, really,” Josephine insists as another sneeze captures her, doe eyes watering. She dabs at her nose and face with a silk handkerchief, embroidered with her initials in golden lettering. “And you just got back. I’d much rather you rest a bit before attending any of my...needs.”

There’s a pretty pink flush that settles on her cheeks as she says this. They’ve shared quiet moments since moving to Skyhold, and Vazrah has done her best to be subtle and courteous with her intentions. A brush of fingers here, a soft smile there. She does not want to push, even after the emotional embrace Josephine gave her after Haven’s fall.

But Vazrah will never tire of seeing the ambassador blush, especially if she’s the one who caused it.

“I’ll go ask Leliana, you know,” Vazrah warns playfully. “I’m sure she would tell me.”

“You play unfairly, my lady,” Josephine muses as her lips curl into a shy smile, but it dissolves into a frown as she shuffles some papers on her desk, folds her hands, and settles into her most diplomatic posture. Vazrah can’t help but admire how gorgeous and diligent she appears when she sits up straight, eyes unwavering.

“I must explain something about my family’s fortunes. Do you recall how I have mentioned the Montilyets are banned from trading in Orlais?”

Vazrah nods.

“It...has devastated our finances. We have been in debt for over one hundred years.” The admission is tainted by shame and unease, and Josephine breaks from Vazrah’s gaze, focusing instead on the letters strewn about her desk. “Hardly anyone outside the family is aware. We have done everything to keep creditors at bay. Sell off parcels of land to stave off interest.” She takes a shuddering breath, folded hands curling into a fist. Her manicured fingernails dig into her skin ever so slightly, and she spits out, “It is  _ infuriating  _ to see my family reduced to this!”

Vazrah says nothing, letting Josephine get it all out. It is the first time she has vented so openly before. Her heart warms at the thought that she trusts her so dearly, but at the same time...it pains Vazrah to see Josephine so affected. Even more so, it pains her to know that Josephine was going to keep it to herself for some time, just to refrain from stepping on Vazrah’s toes.

“I am to become head of our house,” Josephine continues bitterly. “If I sell any more of our land, my family will become destitute. That  _ cannot  _ be my legacy to them.”

She pauses, picking up her quill pen and scribbling something down on one of the many pieces of parchment sitting before her. Her handwriting is far more jagged than it usually is, showcasing her agitated state. When she is done she all but slams the pen back in its inkwell and lets out a sigh, shaking her head and pushing the paper to the side.

“What can I do to help, Josephine?” Vazrah asks softly, reaching over and placing her hands on top of Josephine’s. Josephine twitches beneath Vazrah’s hands but does not pull away; she lifts her head up and flushes again, managing a small but grateful smile.

“I had almost solved our problems. I negotiated for a chance to reinstate the Montilyets as landed traders in Orlais. We could rebuild with that. But when I dispatched the paperwork to Val Royeaux…”

She trails off, clearly overwhelmed.

“The messengers were disposed of, weren’t they?” Vazrah finishes for her quietly, tenderly. It wasn’t something that was unheard of. Hell, once upon a time, it would have been a job Vazrah might have been contracted to do.

Once.

But not anymore, and if Vazrah has anything to say about it, never again.

“Yes,” Josephine replies miserably, head hung low. “The documents meant to restore my family’s trading status were destroyed in the process.”

“But who would do that? Is there someone out there that hates your family? How could they, when they have such an incredible woman as the next head of the house?”

The small laugh that escapes Josephine’s lips is enough to know that Vazrah’s lighthearted flirting does not go unappreciated.

“Leliana made some inquiries. There is a nobleman in Val Royeaux, named Comte Boisvert, who claims to know who murdered my messengers. He has a request. That...you come with me when I am to meet him, so he may be seen ‘publicly conferring’ with the Inquisitor. He has been so kind as to free up his schedule for a meeting in two weeks, when he returns to his villa.”

“I’ll go.” Vazrah nods, voice full of assurance. “If it helps you and your family, then I’ll be glad to accompany you.”

“Oh, _ thank you _ , Inquisitor,” Josephine cries out, grasping Vazrah’s hands and squeezing them gratefully. Her eyes are bright and her smile could put the stars to shame, even when she clears her throat and composes herself, lessening her grip on Vazrah’s hands. But she does not let go, which makes Vazrah’s own cheeks heat up despite herself. 

“Anything for the Inquisition’s most valued member,” Vazrah intones sincerely, raising Josephine’s hands to her lips and placing a chaste kiss to the unblemished, smooth dark skin. 

She does not comprehend her own bold actions until Josephine gasps, the sound catching in her throat.

_ Well, shit. I didn’t mean to get ahead of myself. _

But Josephine merely stares at the place where Vazrah has just kissed her hand the way a knight does to their lady, and she whispers in a strained tone, “I-I suppose I...could get used to such displays.”

Inside her heart, Vazrah whoops in joy and smoothly slides her hands away from Josephine, standing up tall. “Would you care to accompany me to the garden for a few minutes, lady ambassador? I’ve something I would like to show you.”

A curious gleam appears in Josephine’s eyes and she glances down at the paperwork, as if weighing which is more important. The answer comes to her as swift as the wind in the Frostbacks.

Ten minutes later, the two of them are entering Skyhold’s garden, fingers brushing with every step. The healers are tending the herbs grown for poultices and potions, milling about and nodding respectfully when the Inquisitor and ambassador pass. Vazrah leads Josephine to the furthest corners of the courtyard, hidden behind a row of hedges and nestled up against one of Skyhold’s many fortifying walls. Flowers of all shapes and sizes and colors bloom vibrantly against the starkness of gray stone. There is a patch of well-tended daisies, the largest of all of them, right in the middle. Wildflowers from all over Thedas flank the daisies and the air is sweet and full.

It is Vazrah’s secret garden.

Josephine brings her hands to her mouth as she gapes and takes the sight in, delight dancing across her face. “Goodness! I did not even know this was here!”

“I went back to the fields I brought you to so I could make my own garden,” Vazrah explains as she reaches into the satchel slung across her waist. “I am planting seeds from everywhere I go in Thedas, so that whenever I’m not at Skyhold, you can have something to remind you of me. These…”

She pulls out a crown of aster flowers, which are the color of a spring sky. “I picked them in Crestwood. Hawke has been teaching me spirit healing, and there is a technique where I can ask the spirits to stall the wilting of plants by giving up some of my magic to sustain the spell.”

Vazrah hands the crown of asters to Josephine, who receives it with a featherlight touch, stroking the light blue petals almost reverently. The aster seeds that she has gathered she plants in a bare spot amongst the wildflowers, breathing her magic into the soil. The spirits from across the Veil whisper to her in their incoherent ways, their phantom hands guiding her as they enchant the seeds the way she has asked them to. The entire garden shudders as one, so brief that Vazrah herself is aware of it, and she feels the spirits gather the blossoms within their essences. Even if the garden lacks sunlight or water, the flowers will not die easily.

“It’s...it’s lovely, my lady,” Josephine says quietly as she brings the flower crown up to her nose, taking a deep whiff. “Asters symbolize patience, if I recall my brief foray into the language of flowers correctly.”

“And daisies can mean loyal love,” Vazrah points out with an air of nonchalance, plucking one of the white blossoms and tucking it in Josephine’s hair.

_ They still look the best on her. I’ll never find a flower that matches her better. _

Josephine smiles shyly and places the crown of asters on top of her hair, adjusting it so that the daisy head is not crushed by the other flowers. “I would be happy to tend to the garden when you can’t get to it,” she offers, stepping closer and bending down to smell all the different varieties.

“Only if you want. They’ll survive due to my magic, but all flowers thrive on loving care.” Vazrah looks down, voice going quiet. Her heart beats in her chest, pounding on the insides of her ribcage with stony fists. “I want to go back home when all of this is over, Josephine.”

The admission surprises her more than it surprises Josephine, Vazrah thinks.

Josephine turns her head ever so slightly, eyebrows raised. “Home? I was under the impression you did not truly have a home as a Tal-Vashoth mercenary.”

“No, I didn’t. Not really.”

She picks at an invisible string on her trousers with one hand, the other fumbling with the ends of her braid. 

“I...want to be done with that life. I did it because there was no other choice, and I agreed to become Inquisitor because there was no other choice. But after Corypheus is defeated? After the world isn’t so divided and everyone is trying to claw one another’s throats out? I want to go back to the fields where my parents raised me, and just…”

She gestures uselessly to the garden spread before them.

“I’ve had enough of killing. I want to nurture life, not take it away, even if it’s for a good cause.” Vazrah hates pitiful she sounds. It’s nothing like the confident and assured Vazrah she’s supposed to be. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since Hawke taught me how to connect with spirits and use it to heal others,” she finishes lamely, with the barest of shrugs.

Josephine doesn’t answer at first. After a minute, the two of them standing in silence, she stands up and leans against Vazrah’s shoulder.  _ She’s so much smaller than me, _ Vazrah thinks not for the first time since coming to care for the ambassador, her head barely reaching Vazrah’s upper arms. But the comfort her presence brings her calms the erratic beast stalking about inside Vazrah’s chest, if only for a moment.

“I know you aren’t happy being the Inquisitor,” Josephine confesses, and there’s a tinge of guilt in her words. “I do not blame you. A qunari, and a mage, leading an institution such as this? I can’t imagine the weight on your shoulders, my lady. I do my best to lessen the load, but truthfully...I should have been more vocal about appointing someone else. Being the Herald was already enough of a burden. Why must you continue to suffer for the failings of a people you have almost nothing in common with?”

“So I can make sure there are no more failures. But you’re wrong about one thing, Josie; I  _ do  _ have something in common with some of the people here. The mages. They need me, and I want to help them more than I want to run back home and pretend like none of this ever happened.” 

Vazrah slowly, carefully, like a child attempting to draw out a wild rabbit with their uneaten vegetables, she brings an arm around Josephine. Josephine does not stiffen the way a wild rabbit would, and bolt into its burrow, never to be seen again. Instead she presses into the touch, turning so that her head is buried against Vazrah’s chest—

—she has a brief image of Bridget smirking and giving her a thumbs up, making a comment about her seemingly “perfect” tits, and has to banish the young woman away before she ruins the moment by falling into a laughing fit—

—and brings her own arms around Vazrah’s waist.

“It isn’t fair to you. I am so sorry.” Josephine hugs her tightly, with a force that surprises the qunari, considering how slender Josie’s frame is. There is a hidden strength within her, and it burns bright as the sun as she lifts her head to meet Vazrah’s eyes. “We will do better.  _ I _ will do better. What do you need of me, Vazrah?”

Not Inquisitor.

Not Herald.

Just  _ Vazrah. _

She knows, then. Knows that this beautiful, charming, intelligent, intense human woman loves her. She knows Josephine won’t say it out loud, not just yet; there is a decorum to follow, and Josie is anything if not meticulous in the ways of proper courting etiquette. 

Vazrah figures she should do the same, and resists the powerful urge to kiss her. 

It’s easier said than done.

“I want to talk to you and Leliana about this. Cassandra, too, I suppose, but I know she won’t be happy about it.” Vazrah congratulates herself on how steady and even her voice is, and keeps it low even though the spirits she’s connected to tell her that there is no one around to hear her words. “We met Hawke’s Warden contact in Crestwood. King Alistair was with him. Hawke, Alistair, and myself all agreed on one thing.”

Josephine’s nostrils flare, the only thing that betrays her shock at the fact that the king of Ferelden was somehow in Denerim, but does not interrupt. She presses herself closer to Vazrah, assumably so she can hear better, considering how quiet her voice has gotten.

“It’s time to give the mages a place of their own. No Chantry, no Templars, no Circles; not the way things have been for so many centuries. The Inquisition will help them create whatever they need to truly be free and safe. If we can’t even do that, what good are we to stop an ancient Magister who wants to become a god?”

The ambassador bites her lip. In any other situation it would be far too alluring for Vazrah to concentrate, but her blood is pumping and her mind is focused on one thing only. Finally, Josephine nods, reaching up and cupping Vazrah’s cheek. It’s quick, so quick she thinks it’s just her imagination, but Josie brings Vazrah’s face down to her level and places a soft kiss on the other cheek, lips barely brushing against her skin.

“I will see to it immediately, Vazrah. You have my word.”

Her relief is palpable. She slumps, Josephine nearly having to support her, and just holds Josie in her arms. Her face finds its way to rest on top of her head, taking in the delicate scent of vanilla and whatever tea she enjoyed just before Vazrah’s return to Skyhold. She feels a peace she wasn’t sure she could ever achieve. Vazrah knows that whatever the future holds, she will have Josephine by her side.

She smiles, imagining the awe of Shokrakar and the rest of the Valo-Kas when they learn of yet one more impossible thing she plans on doing.

_ I’m going to change the world, Shokrakar. Just you wait. _


End file.
